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ARTHUR  OLEARY 


fte  ©HattDetfngss  ana  ponDcrinp  tn 
jHanr  JLan&js. 


BY 

CHARLES  LEYER. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  GEORGE  CRUIKSHANK. 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 
1912. 


Printers 

8.  J.  Parkhill  <fe  Co.,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


i 


4-00^- 
A IQ 
DIS- 
CONTENTS. 


Page 

Introduction 1 

Chapter 

1.  The  “Attwood” 15 

II.  The  Passport.  — A Perilous  Adventure.  — Mine 

Host  of  the  Boar’s  Head 21 

III.  Mine  Host’s  Tale 39 

IV.  Mems.  and  Moralizings 45 

V.  Strange  Characters 53 

VI.  The  Smuggler’s  Story  67 


VII.  The  Smuggler’s  Story  (continued) 93 

VIII.  The  Smuggler’s  Story  ( concluded ) 110 


IX.  Table-Traits 

X.  A Dilemma 

XI.  A Fragment  of  Forest  Life 185 

XII.  Chateau  Life 210 

XIII.  The  Abbe’s  Story 227 

XIV.  The  Chase 245 

XV.  A Narrow  Escape 201 

XVI.  A Mountain  Adventure 279 

XVII.  The  Bore.  — A Soldier  of  the  Empire  . . . 292 

XVIII.  The  Retreat  from  Leipsic 301 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Chapter  Pam 

XIX.  The  Top  op  a Diligence 311 

XX.  Bonn  and  Student  Life  . . 321 

XXI.  The  Student 310 

XXII.  Spas  and  Grand  Dukedoms 355 

XXIII.  The  Travelling  Party 364 

XXIV.  The  Gambling-Room 375 

XXV.  A Watering-Place  Doctor 386 

XXVI.  Sir  Harry  Wycherley  394 

XXVII.  The  Recovery  House 406 

XXVIII.  The  “Dream  of  Death” 411 

XXIX.  The  Strange  Guest 421 

XXX.  The  Park 429 

XXXI.  The  Baron’s  Story 435 

XXXII.  The  Rapacious  Officer 462 

XXXIII.  The  Fortress 478 

XXXIV.  A Play  by  Command 486 

XXXV.  Conclusion 498 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


latchings. 

PAG! 

Portrait  of  Arthur  O’Leary Frontispiece 

Crossing  a Frontier 27 

A Theatrical  Exit 83 

A Night  in  the  Forest  of  Arden 203 

Lazare 284 

A New  Way  to  reckon  without  One’s  Host  . . . 


. 472 


INTRODUCTION. 


When  some  years  ago  we  took  the  liberty,  in  a volume  of 
our  so-called  “Confessions,”  to  introduce  to  our  reader’s 
acquaintance  the  gentleman  whose  name  figures  in  the  title- 
page,  we  subjoined  a brief  notice  by  himself,  intimating 
the  intention  he  entertained  of  one  day  giving  to  the  world 
a further  insight  into  his  life  and  opinions,  under  the  title 
of  “ Loiterings  of  Arthur  O’Leary.” 

It  is  more  than  probable  that  the  garbled  statement  and 
incorrect  expression  of  which  we  ourselves  were  guilty  re- 
specting our  friend  had  piqued  him  into  this  declaration, 
which,  on  mature  consideration,  he  thought  fit  to  abandon. 
For,  from  that  hour  to  the  present  one  nothing  of  the  kind 
ever  transpired,  nor  could  we  ascertain,  by  the  strictest 
inquiry,  that  such  a proposition  of  publication  had  ever 
been  entertained  in  the  West  End,  or  heard  of  in  the 
“ Row.” 

The  worthy  traveller  had  wandered  away  to  “pastures 
new,”  heaven  knows  where ! and,  notwithstanding  repeated 
little  paragraphs  in  the  second  advertising  column  of  the 
“ Times  ” newspaper,  assuring  « A.  O’L.  that  if  he  would 
inform  his  friends  where  a letter  would  reach  all  would 
be  forgiven,”  etc.,  the  mystery  of  his  whereabouts  remained 
unsolved,  save  by  the  chance  mention  of  a northwest-pas- 
sage traveller,  who  speaks  of  a Mr.  O’Leary  as  having  pre- 
sided at  a grand  bottle-nosed  whale  dinner  in  Behring’s 
Straits  some  time  in  the  autumn  of  1840 ; and  an  allusion 
in  the  second  volume  of  the  Chevalier  de  Bertonville’s  « Dis- 


2 


INTRODUCTION. 


coveries  in  Central  Africa’’  to  an  Irlandais  bien  original, 
who  acted  as  sponsor  to  the  son  and  heir  of  King  Bulla- 
nullaboo,  in  the  Chieckhow  Territory.  That  either,  or,  in- 
deed, both  these  individuals  resolved  themselves  into  our 
respected  friend,  we  entertained  no  doubt  whatever  ; nor  did 
the  information  cause  us  any  surprise,  far  less,  unquestion- 
ably, than  had  we  heard  of  his  ordering  his  boots  from 
Hoby,  or  his  coat  from  Stultz. 

Meanwhile  time  rolled  on ; and  whether  Mr.  O’Leary 
had  died  of  the  whale  feast,  or  been  eaten  himself  by  his 
godson,  no  one  could  conjecture  ; and  his  name  had  probably 
been  lost  amid  the  rust  of  ages,  if  certain  booksellers  in 
remote  districts  had  not  chanced  upon  the  announcement 
of  his  volume,  and  their  “ country  orders  ” kept  dropping 
in  for  these  same  “Loiterings,”  of  which  the  publishers 
were  obliged  to  confess  they  knew  nothing  whatever. 

Now,  the  season  was  a dull  one,  — nothing  stirring  in  the 
literary  world ; people  had  turned  from  books  to  newspa- 
pers ; a gloomy  depression  reigned  over  the  land.  The  In- 
dia news  was  depressing ; the  China,  worse ; the  French  were 
more  insolent  than  ever;  the  prices  were  falling  under  the 
new  tariff;  pigs  looked  down,  and  “ Repealers  ” looked  up. 
The  only  interesting  news  was  the  frauds  in  pork,  which 
turned  out  to  be  pickled  negroes  and  potted  squaws.  What 
was  to  be  done  ? A literary  speculation  at  such  a moment 
was  preposterous ; for  although  in  an  age  of  temperance, 
nothing  prospered  but  “ Punch.” 

It  occurred  to  us,  “ then  pondering,”  as  Lord  Brougham 
would  say,  that  as  these  same  “ Loiterings  ” had  been  asked 
for  more  than  once,  and  an  actual  order  for  two  copies  had 
been  seen  in  the  handwriting  of  a solvent  individual,  there 
was  no  reason  why  we  should  not  write  them  ourselves. 
There  would  be  little  difficulty  in  imagining  what  a man 
like  O’Leary  would  say,  think,  or  do,  in  any  given  situa- 
tion. The  peculiarities  of  his  character  might,  perhaps, 
give  point  to  what  dramatic  people  call  “ situations,”  but 
yet  were  not  of  such  a nature  as  to  make  their  portraiture 
a matter  of  any  difficulty. 


INTRODUCTION. 


3 


We  confess  the  thing  savored  a good  deal  of  book- 
making. What  of  that  ? We  remember  once,  in  a row 
in  Dublin,  when  the  military  were  called  out,  that  a senti- 
nel happened  to  have  an  altercation  with  an  old  woman 
of  that  class  for  which  the  Irish  metropolis  used  to  have 
a patent  in  all  that  regards  street  eloquence  and  repartee. 
The  soldier,  provoked  beyond  endurance,  declared  at  last 
with  an  oath  “that  if  she  didn’t  go  away,  he’d  drive  his 
bayonet  through  her.”  “ Oh,  then,  the  devil  thank  you  for 
that  same,”  responded  the  hag,  “ sure,  is  n’t  it  your  trade  ? ” 
Make  the  application,  dear  reader,  and  forgive  us  for  our 
authorship  to  order. 

Besides,  had  we  not  before  us  the  example  of  Alexandre 
Dumas,  in  France,  whose  practice  it  is  to  amuse  the  world 
by  certain  “Souvenirs  de  Voyage,”  which  he  has  never 
made,  not  even  in  imagination,  but  which  are  only  the 
dressed-up  skeletons  of  other  men’s  rambles,  and  which  he 
buys,  exactly  as  the  Jews  do  old  uniforms  and  court  suits, 
for  exportation  to  the  colonies.  And  thus,  while  thousands 
of  his  readers  are  sympathizing  with  the  suffering  of  the 
aforesaid  Alexandre,  in  his  perilous  passage  of  the  great 
desert  or  his  fearful  encounter  with  Norwegian  wolves, 
little  know  they  that  their  hero  is  snugly  established  in 
his  entresol  of  the  Rue  d’ Alger,  lying  full  length  on  a 
spring-cushioned  sofa,  with  a Manilla  weed  on  his  lip,  and 
George  Sand’s  last  bulletin  of  wickedness  half  cut  before 
him;  these  “Souvenirs  de  Voyage”  being  nothing  more 
than  the  adventures  and  incidents  of  Messrs.  John  Doe 
and  Richard  Doe,  paragraphed,  witticized,  and  spiced  for 
public  taste,  by  Alexandre  Dumas,  pretty  much  as  cheap 
taverns  give  “ gravy  ” and  “ ox-tail,”  — the  smallest  modi- 
cum of  meat  to  the  most  high-seasoned  and  hot-flavoured 
condiments. 

If,  then,  we  had  scruples,  here  was  a precedent  to  relieve 
our  minds,  here  a case  perfectly  in  point,  at  least  so  far 
as  the  legitimacy  of  the  practice  demanded.  But,  unhap- 
pily,  it  ended  there ; for  although  it  may  be,  and  indeed  is, 
very  practicable  for  Monsieur  Dumas,  by  the  perfection  of 


4 


INTRODUCTION. 


his  11  cuisine,”  to  make  the  meat  itself  a secondary  part  of 
the  matter,  yet  do  we  grievously  fear  that  a tureen  full 
of  “ O’Leary”  might  not  be  an  acceptable  dish,  because 
there  was  a bone  of  “ Harry  Lorrequer  ” in  the  bottom. 

With  all  these  pros  and  cons,  our  vainglorious  boast  to 
write  the  work  in  question  stared  us  suddenly  in  the  face  ; 
and,  really,  we  felt  as  mucli  shame  as  can  reasonably  be 
supposed  to  visit  a man,  whose  countenance  has  been 
hawked  about  the  streets,  and  sold  in  shilling  numbers. 
What  was  to  be  done  ? There  was  the  public,  too ; but, 
like  Tony  Lumpkin,  we  felt  we  might  disappoint  the  com- 
pany at  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons,  — but  could  we  disappoint 
ourselves  ? 

Alas ! there  were  some  excellent  reasons  against  such 
a consummation.  So,  respected  reader,  whatever  liberties 
we  might  take  with  you,  we  had  to  look  nearer  home,  and 
bethink  us  of  ourselves.  After  all,  — and  what  a glorious 
charge  to  the  jury  of  one’s  conscience  is  your  “after  all ! ” 
what  a plenary  indulgence  against  all  your  sins  of  com- 
mission and  omission ! what  a makepeace  to  self-accusa- 
tion, and  what  a salve  to  heartfelt  repinings ! — after  all, 
we  did  know  a great  deal  about  O’Leary : his  life  and 
opinions,  his  habits  and  haunts,  his  prejudices,  pleasures, 
and  predilections  ; and  although  we  never  performed  Boz 
to  his  Johnson,  still  had  we  ample  knowledge  of  him  for 
all  purposes  of  book- writing ; and  there  was  no  reason  why 
we  should  not  assume  his  mantle,  or  rather  his  mackintosh, 
if  the  weather  required  it. 

Having  in  some  sort  allayed  our  scruples  in  this  fashion, 
and  having  satisfied  our  conscience  by  the  resolve  that  if 
we  were  not  about  to  record  the  actual  res  gestce  of  Mr. 
O’Leary,  neither  would  we  set  down  anything  which  might 
not  have  been  one  of  his  adventures,  nor  put  into  his  mouth 
any  imaginary  conversations  which  he  might  not  have  sus- 
tained ; so  that,  in  short,  should  the  volume  ever  come 
under  the  eyes  of  the  respected  gentleman  himself,  con- 
siderable mystification  would  exist  as  to  whether  he  did 
not  say,  do,  and  think  exactly  as  we  made  him,  and 


INTRODUCTION. 


5 


much  doubt  lie  on  his  mind  that  he  was  not  the  author 
himself. 

We  wish  particularly  to  lay  stress  on  the  honesty  of 
these  our  intentions  — the  more,  as  subsequent  events  have 
interfered  with  their  accomplishment ; and  we  can  only 
assure  the  world  of  what  we  would  have  done,  had  we 
been  permitted.  And  here  let  us  observe,  en  passant , that 
if  other  literary  characters  had  been  actuated  by  similarly 
honorable  views,  we  should  have  been  spared  those  very 
absurd  speeches  which  Sallust  attributes  to  his  characters 
in  the  Catiline  conspiracy  ; and  another  historian,  with  still 
greater  daring,  assumes  the  Prince  of  Orange  ought  to  have 
spoken  at  various  epochs  in  the  late  Belgian  revolution. 

With  such  prospective  hopes,  then,  did  we  engage  in  the 
mystery  of  these  same  “ Loiterings  ; ” and  with  a pleasure 
such  as  only  men  of  the  pen  can  appreciate,  did  we  watch 
the  bulky  pile  of  manuscript  that  was  growing  up  before 
us,  while  the  interest  of  the  work  had  already  taken  hold 
of  us.  And  whether  we  moved  our  puppets  to  the  slow 
figure  of  a minuet,  or  rattled  them  along  at  the  slap-dash, 
hurry-scurry,  devil-may-care  pace,  for  which  our  critics 
habitually  give  us  credit,  we  felt  that  our  foot  beat  time 
responsively  to  the  measure,  and  that  we  actually  began  to 
enjoy  the  performance. 

In  this  position  stood  matters  w7hen  one  early  morning 
in  December  the  post  brought  us  an  ominous-looking 
epistle,  which,  even  as  we  glanced  our  eye  on  the  outside, 
conveyed  an  impression  of  fear  and  misgiving  to  our  minds. 
If  there  are  men  in  whose  countenances,  as  Pitt  remarked, 
“ villany  is  so  impressed,  it  were  impiety  not  to  believe  it,” 
so  are  there  certain  letters  whose  very  shape  and  color,  fold, 
seal,  and  superscription  have  something  gloomy  and  threat- 
ening, something  of  menace  and  mischief  about  them. 
This  was  one  of  these ; the  paper  was  a greenish,  sickly 
white,  a kind  of  dyspeptic  foolscap ; the  very  mill  that 
fabricated  it  might  have  had  the  shaking  ague.  The  seal 
was  of  bottle-wax,  the  impression,  a heavy  thumb.  The  ad- 
dress ran,  “ To  H.  L.”  The  writing  was  a species  of  rustic 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 


paling,  curiously  interwoven  and  gnarled,  to  which  the 
thickness  of  the  ink  lent  a needless  obscurity,  giving  to 
the  whole  the  appearance  of  something  like  a child’s  effort 
to  draw  a series  of  beetles  and  cockroaches  with  a blunt 
stick.  But  what  most  of  all  struck  terror  to  our  souls  was 
an  abortive  effort  at  the  words  “ Arthur  O’Leary,”  scrawled 
in  the  corner. 

What ! had  he  really  then  escaped  the  perils  of  blubber 
and  black  men  ? Was  he  alive  ? and  had  he  come  back  to 
catch  us  in  delicto , — in  the  very  fact  of  editing  him,  of 
raising  our  exhausted  exchequer  at  his  cost,  and  replen- 
ishing our  empty  coffers  under  his  credit  ? Our  suspicions 
were  but  too  true.  We  broke  the  seal,  and  spelled  as 
follows : — 

Sir,  — A lately-arrived  traveller  in  these  parts  brings  me  intelli- 
gence that  a work  is  announced  for  publication  by  you,  under  the 
title  of  “ The  Loiterings  of  Arthur  O’Leary,”  containing  his  opinions, 
notions,  dreamings,  and  doings  during  several  years  of  his  life,  and 
in  various  countries.  Now  this  must  mean  me  ; and  I should  like 
to  know  what  are  a man’s  own,  if  his  adventures  are  not  ? His  on- 
goings, his  begebenheiten,  as  the  Germans  call  them,  are  they  not  as 
much  his,  as  his,  — what  shall  I say  1 — his  flannel  waistcoat  or  his 
tobacco-pipe  ? 

If  I have  spent  many  years  and  many  pounds  (of  tobacco)  in  my 
explorings  of  other  lands,  is  it  for  you  to  reap  the  benefit  1 If  I have 
walked,  smoked,  laughed,  and  fattened  from  Trolhatten  to  Tehran, 
was  it  that  you  should  have  the  profit  ? Was  I to  exhibit  in  ludi- 
crous situations  and  extravagant  incidents,  with  “ illustrations  by 
Phiz,”  because  I happened  to  be  fat,  and  fond  of  rambling  ? Or  was 
it  my  name  only  that  you  pirated,  so  that  Arthur  O’Leary  should  be 
a type  of  something  ludicrous,  wherever  he  appeared  in  company  ? 
Or,  worse  still,  was  it  an  attempt  to  extort  money  from  me,  as  I 
understand  you  once  before  tried,  by  assuming  for  one  of  your  heroes 
the  name  of  a most  respectable  gentleman  in  private  life  1 To  which 
of  these  counts  do  you  plead  guilty  ? 

Whatever  is  your  plan,  here  is  mine  : I have  given  instructions  to 
my  man  of  law  to  obtain  an  injunction  from  the  Chancellor,  restrain- 
ing you  or  any  other  from  publishing  these  “ Loiterings.”  Yes,  an 
order  of  the  court  will  soon  put  an  end  to  this  most  unwarrantable 
invasion  of  private  rights.  Let  us  see  then  if  you  ’ll  dare  to  persist 
in  this  nefarious  scheme. 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


The  Swan  River  for  you  and  the  stocks  for  your  publisher  may, 
perhaps,  moderate  your  literary  and  publishing  ardour,  — eh  ! Mas- 
ter Harry  ? Or,  do  you  contemplate  adding  your  own  adventures 
beyond  seas  to  the  volume,  and  then  make  something  of  your  “Con- 
fessions of  a Convict  l ” I must  conclude  at  once  ; in  my  indignation 
this  half-hour,  I have  been  swallowing  all  the  smoke  of  my  meer- 
schaum, and  I feel  myself  turning  round  and  round  like  a smoke- 
jack.  Once  for  all,  — stop  ! recall  your  announcement,  burn  your 
manuscript,  and  prostrate  yourself  in  abject  humility  at  my  feet,  and 
with  many  sighs,  and  two  pounds  of  shag  (to  be  had  at  No.  8 Francis 
Street,  two  doors  from  the  lane),  you  may  haply  be  forgiven  by 
yours,  in  wrath, 

Arthur  O’Leary. 

Address  a line,  if  in  penitence,  to  me  here,  where  the  lovely 
scenery  and  the  society  remind  me  much  of  Siberia. 

Edenderry,  “ The  Pig  and  Pot-hooks.” 

Having  carefully  read  and  re-read  this  letter,  and  having 
laid  it  before  those  whose  interests,  like  our  own,  were 
deeply  involved,  we  really  for  a time  became  thoroughly 
nonplussed.  To  disclaim  any  or  all  of  the  intentions 
attributed  to  us  in  Mr.  O’Leary’s  letter  would  have  been 
perfectly  useless,  so  long  as  we  held  to  our  project  of  pub- 
lishing anything  under  his  name.  Of  no  avail  to  assure 
him  that  our  “ Loiterings  of  Arthur  O’Leary  ” were  not 
his,  that  our  hero  was  not  himself.  To  little  purpose 
should  we  adduce  that  our  alter  ego  was  the  hero  of  a 
book  by  the  prebend  of  Lichfield,  and  “ Charles  Lever  ” 
given  to  the  world  as  a socialist.  He  cared  for  nothing  of 
all  this  ; tenax  propositi,  he  would  listen  to  no  explanation  ; 
unconditional,  absolute,  Chinese  submission  were  his  only 
terms,  and  with  these  we  were  obliged  to  comply.  And  yet 
how  very  ridiculous  was  the  power  he  assumed.  Was  any- 
thing more  common  in  practice  than  to  write  the  lives  of 
distinguished  men,  even  before  their  death,  and  who  ever 
heard  of  the  individual  seeking  legal  redress  against  his 
biographer,  except  for  libel  ? “ Come,  come,  Arthur,”  said 

we  to  ourselves,  “ this  threat  affrights  us  not.  Here  we 
begin  Chapter  XIV.” 


8 


INTRODUCTION. 


Just  then  we  turned  our  eyes  mechanically  towards  the 
pile  of  manuscript  at  our  elbow,  and  could  not  help  admir- 
ing the  philosophy  with  which  he  spoke  of  condemning  to 
the  flames  the  fruit  of  our  labor.  Still,  it  was  evident  that 
Mr.  O’Leary’s  was  no  brutum  fultnen,  but  very  respectable 
and  downright  thunder ; and  that  in  fact  we  should  soon 
be  where,  however  interesting  it  may  make  a young  lady, 
it  by  no  means  suits  an  elderly  gentleman  to  be,  namely,  — 
in  chancery. 

“ What ’s  to  be  done  ? ” was  the  question,  which  like 
a tennis-ball  we  pitched  at  each  other.  “ We  have  it,” 
said  we.  “We’ll  start  at  once  for  Edenderry,  and  bring 
this  with  us,”  pointing  to  our  manuscript.  “ We  ’ll  show 
O’Leary  how  near  immortality  he  was,  and  may  still  be, 
if  not  loaded  with  obstinacy ; we  ’ll  read  him  a bit  of  our 
droll,  and  some  snatches  of  our  pathetic  passages.  We’ll 
show  him  how  the  ‘ Immortal  George  ’ intends  to  represent 
him.  In  a word,  we  ’ll  enchant  him  with  the  fascinating 
position  to  which  we  mean  to  exalt  him;  and  before  the 
evening  ends  obtain  his  special  permission  to  deal  with 
him,  as  before  now  we  have  done  with  his  betters,  and  — 
print  him.” 

Our  mind  made  up,  no  time  was  to  be  lost.  We  took  our 
place  in  the  Grand  Canal  passage-boat  for  Edenderry,  and 
wrapping  ourselves  up  in  our  virtue  and  another  thin  gar- 
ment they  call  a zephyr,  began  our  journey. 

We  should  have  liked  well,  had  our  object  permitted  it, 
to  have  made  some  brief  notes  of  our  own  “Loiterings.” 
But  the  goal  of  our  wanderings,  as  well  as  of  our  thoughts, 
was  ever  before  us ; and  we  spent  the  day  imagining  to  our- 
selves the  various  modes  by  which  we  should  make  our 
advances  to  the  enemy  with  most  hope  of  success.  Whether 
the  company  themselves  did  not  afford  anything  very  re- 
markable, or  our  own  preoccupation  prevented  our  noticing 
it,  certes  we  jogged  on  without  any  consciousness  that  we 
were  not  perfectly  alone,  and  this  for  some  twenty  miles 
of  the  way.  At  last,  however,  the  cabin  became  intolerably 
hot.  Something  like  twenty-four  souls  were  imprisoned  in 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


a space  ten  feet  by  three,  which  the  humanity  of  the  com- 
pany of  directors  kindly  limits  to  forty-eight,  — a number 
which  no  human  ingenuity  could  pack  into  it,  if  living. 
The  majority  of  the  passengers  were  what  by  courtesy  are 
called  “ small  farmers,”  namely,  individuals  weighing  from 
eighteen  to  six-and-twenty  stone ; priests,  with  backs  like 
the  gable  of  a chapel ; and  a sprinkling  of  elderly  ladies 
from  the  bog  towns  along  the  bank,  who  actually  resembled 
turf  clamps  in  their  proportions.  We  made  an  effort  to 
reach  the  door,  and  having  at  length  succeeded,  found  to 
our  sorrow  that  the  rain  was  falling  heavily.  Notwith- 
standing this,  we  remained  without  as  long  as  we  could 
venture,  the  oppressive  heat  within  being  far  more  intoler- 
able than  even  the  rain.  At  length,  however,  wet  through 
and  cold,  we  squeezed  ourselves  into  a small  corner  near 
the  door,  and  sat  down.  But  what  a change  had  our  unpro- 
pitious  presence  evoked.  We  left  our  fellow-travellers,  a 
noisy,  jolly,  semi-riotous  party,  disputing  over  the  markets, 
censuring  Sir  Robert,  abusing  the  poor-rates,  and  discussing 
various  matters  of  foreign  and  domestic  policy,  from  Shah 
Shoojah  to  subsoil  ploughs.  A dirty  pack  of  cards,  and 
even  punch,  were  adding  their  fascinations  to  while  away 
the  tedious  hours ; but  now  the  company  sat  in  solemn 
silence.  The  ladies  looked  straight  before  them,  without 
a muscle  of  their  faces  moving ; the  farmers  had  lifted  the 
collars  of  their  frieze  coats,  and  concealed  their  hands 
within  their  sleeves,  so  as  to  be  perfectly  invisible;  and 
the  reverend  fathers,  putting  on  dark  and  dangerous  looks, 
spoke  only  in  monosyllables,  no  longer  sipped  their  liquor 
in  comfort,  but  rang  the  bell  from  time  to  time,  and  ordered 
“another  beverage,”  a curious  smoking  compound,  that  to 
our  un-Mathewed  senses  savored  suspiciously  of  whiskey. 

It  was  a dark  night  when  we  reached  the  Pig  and  Pot- 
hooks, the  hostelry  whence  Mr.  O’Leary  had  addressed 
us  ; and  although  not  yet  eight  o’clock,  no  appearance  of 
light  nor  any  stir  announced  that  the  famil}'-  were  about. 
After  some  little  delay,  our  summons  was  answered  by  a 
bare-legged  handmaiden,  who,  to  our  question  if  Mr.  O’Leary 


10 


INTRODUCTION. 


stopped  there,  without  further  hesitation  opened  a small 
door  to  the  left,  and  introduced  us  bodily  into  his  august 
presence. 

Our  travelled  friend  was  seated  more  suo,  with  his  legs 
supported  on  two  chairs  while  he  himself  in  chief  occupied 
a third,  his  wig  being  on  the  arm  of  that  one  on  which  he 
reposed.  A very  imposing  tankard,  with  a floating  toast, 
smoked  on  the  table ; and  a large  collection  of  pipes  of 
every  grade,  from  the  haughty  hubble-bubble  to  the  hum- 
ble dudeen,  hung  around  on  the  walls. 

“ Ha ! ” said  he,  as  we  closed  the  door  behind  us  and 
advanced  into  the  room,  “ and  so  you  are  penitent.  Well, 
Hal,  I forgive  you.  It  was  a scurvy  trick  though ; but  I 
remember  it  no  longer.  Here,  take  a pull  at  the  pewter, 
and  tell  us  all  the  Dublin  news.” 

It  is  not  our  intention,  dear  reader,  to  indulge  in  the 
same  mystification  with  you  that  we  practised  on  our 
friend  Mr.  O’Leary,  or,  in  other  words,  to  invent  for  your 
edification,  as  we  confess  to  have  done  for  his,  all  the 
events  and  circumstances  which  might  have,  but  did  not 
take  place  in  Dublin  for  the  preceding  month.  It  is  enough 
to  say  that  about  eleven  o’clock  Mr.  O’Leary  was  in  the 
seventh  heaven  of  conversational  contentment  and  in  the 
ninth  flagon  of  purl. 

“ Open  it,  let  me  see  it.  Come,  Hal,  divulge  at  once,” 
said  he,  kicking  the  carpet-bag  that  contained  our  manu- 
script. We  undid  the  lock,  and  emptied  our  papers  before 
him.  His  eyes  sparkled  as  the  heavy  folds  fell  over  each 
other  on  the  table,  his  mouth  twitched  with  a movement  of 
convulsive  pleasure.  “ Ring  the  bell,  my  lad,”  said  he ; 
“ the  string  is  beside  you.  Send  the  master,  Mary,”  con- 
tinued he,  as  the  maiden  entered. 

Peter  Mahoon  soon  made  his  appearance,  rather  startled 
at  being  summoned  from  his  bed,  and  evidencing  in  his 
toilette  somewhat  more  of  zeal  than  dandyism. 

“ Is  the  house  insured,  Peter  ? ” said  Mr.  O’Leary. 

“No,  sir,”  rejoined  he,  with  a searching  look  around  the 
room,  and  a sniff  of  his  nose,  to  discover  if  he  could  detect 
the  smell  of  fire. 


INTRODUCTION. 


11 


“ What ’s  the  premises  worth,  Peter  ? ” 

“ Sorrow  one  of  me  knows  right,  sir.  Maybe  a hundred 
and  fifty,  or  it  might  bring  two  hundred  pounds.” 

“ All  right,”  said  O’Leary,  briskly,  as  seizing  my  manu- 
script with  both  hands  he  hurled  it  on  the  blazing  turf  fire; 
and  then  grasping  the  poker,  stood  guard  over  it,  exclaim- 
ing as  he  did  so,  “ Touch  it,  and  by  the  beard  of  the 
Prophet  1 ’ll  brain  you ! Now,  there  it  goes,  blazing  up 
the  chimney.  Look  how  it  floats  up  there ! I never 
expected  to  travel  like  that  anyhow.  Eh,  Hal  ? Your 
work  is  a brilliant  affair,  is  n’t  it  ? — and  as  well  puffed 
as  if  you  entertained  every  newspaper  editor  in  the  king- 
dom ? And  see,”  cried  he,  as  he  stamped  his  foot  upon 
the  blaze,  “ the  whole  edition  is  exhausted  already,  — not 
a copy  to  be  had  for  any  money.” 

We  threw  ourselves  back  in  our  chair,  and  covered  our 
face  with  our  hands.  The  toil  of  many  a long  night,  of 
many  a bright  hour  of  sun  and  wind,  was  lost  to  us  for- 
ever, and  we  may  be  pardoned  if  our  grief  was  heavy. 

“ Cheer  up,  old  fellow,”  said  he,  as  the  last  flicker  of  the 
burning  paper  expired.  “ You  know  the  thing  was  bad ; it 
could  n’t  be  other.  The  damned  fly-away  harum-scarum 
style  of  yours  is  no  more  adapted  to  a work  of  real  merit 
than  a Will-o’-the-wisp  would  be  for  a lighthouse.  Another 
jug,  Peter,  — bring  two.  The  truth  is,  Hal,  I was  not  so 
averse  to  the  publication  of  my  life  as  to  the  infernal  mess 
you ’d  have  made  of  it.  You  have  no  pathos,  no  tenderness, 
— damn  the  bit.” 

“Come,  come,”  said  we,  “it  is  enough  to  burn  our 
manuscript ; but,  really,  as  to  playing  the  critic  in  this 
fashion  — ” 

“Then,”  continued  he,  “all  that  confounded  folly  you 
deal  in,  laughing  at  the  priests ! Lord  bless  you,  man ! 
they  have  more  fun,  those  fellows,  than  you,  and  a score 
like  you.  There ’s  one  Father  Dolan  here  would  tell  two 
stories  for  your  one,  — ay,  better  than  ever  you  told.” 

“We  really  have  no  ambition  to  enter  the  lists  with  your 
friend.” 


12 


INTRODUCTION. 


“ So  much  the  better,  — you ’d  get  the  worst  of  it ; and 
as  to  knowledge  of  character,  see  now,  Peter  Mahoon  there 
would  teach  you  human  nature ; and  if  I liked  myself  to 
appear  in  print  — ” 

“Well,”  said  we,  bursting  out  into  a fit  of  laughter, 
“that  would  certainly  be  amusing.” 

“And  so  it  would,  whether  you  jest  or  no.  There’s  in 
that  drawer  there  the  materials  of  as  fine  a work  as  ever 
appeared  since  1 Sir  J ohn  Carr’s  Travels ; ’ and  the  style  is 
a happy  union  of  Goldsmith  and  Jean  Paul, — simple  yet 
aphoristic,  profound  and  pleasing,  sparkling  like  the  can 
before  me,  but  pungent  and  racy  in  its  bitterness.  Hand 
me  that  oak  box,  Hal.  Which  is  the  key  ? At  this  hour 
one’s  sight  becomes  always  defective.  Ah,  here  it  is ! — 
look  there  ! ” 

We  obeyed  the  command,  and  truly  our  amazement  was 
great,  though  possibly  not  for  the  reason  that  Mr.  O’Leary 
could  have  desired ; for,  instead  of  anything  like  a regular 
manuscript,  we  beheld  a mass  of  small  scraps  of  paper, 
backs  of  letters,  newspapers,  magazines,  fty-leaves  of  books, 
old  prints,  etc.,  scrawled  on  in  the  most  uncouth  fashion ; 
and  purporting,  from  the  numbers  appended,  to  be  a con- 
tinued narration  of  one  kind  or  other. 

“ What ’s  all  this  ? ” said  we. 

“ These,”  said  he,  “ are  really  ‘ The  Loiterings  of  Arthur 
O’Leary.’  Listen  to  this.  Here ’s  a bit  of  Goldsmith  for 
you:  — 

“ ‘ I was  born  of  poor  but  respectable  parents  in  the  country  — ’ 

“ What  are  you  laughing  at  ? Is  it  because  I did  n’t  open 
with,  ‘ The  sun  was  setting,  on  the  25th  of  June,  in  the  year 
1763,  as  two  travellers  were  seen,’  etc.,  etc.  ? Eh  ? That ’s 
your  way,  not  mine.  A London  fellow  told  me  that  my 
papers  were  worth  five  hundred  pounds.  Come,  that ’s 
what  I call  something.  Now  I ’ll  go  over  to  the  ‘Kow.’” 

“Stop  a bit.  Here  seems  something  strange  about  the 
King  of  Holland.” 

. “You  mustn’t  read  them,  though.  No,  no.  That’ll 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


never  do,  — no,  Hal ; no  plagiarism.  But,  after  all,  I have 
been  a little  hasty  with  you.  Perhaps  I ought  not  to  have 
burned  that  thing;  you  were  not  to  know  it  was  bad.” 

“Eh!  how?” 

“ Why,  I say,  you  might  not  see  how  absurd  it  was ; so 
here ’s  your  health,  Hal : either  that  tankard  has  been 
drugged,  or  a strange  change  has  come  over  my  feelings. 
Harry  Lorrequer,  I ’ll  make  your  fortune,  or  rather  your 
son’s,  for  you  are  a wasteful  creature,  and  will  spend  the 
proceeds  as  fast  as  you  get  them ; but  the  ever-lastingly- 
called-for  new  editions  will  keep  him  in  cash  all  his  life. 
I ’ll  give  you  that  box  and  its  contents  ; yes,  I repeat  it,  it 
is  yours.  I see  you  are  overpowered ; there,  taste  the 
pewter,  and  you  ’ll  get  better  presently.  In  that  you  ’ll 
find  — a little  irregular  and  carelessly-written,  perhaps  — 
the  sum  of  my  experience  and  knowledge  of  life,  — all 
my  correspondence,  all  my  private  notes,  my  opinions  on 
literature,  fine  arts,  politics,  and  the  drama.” 

But  we  will  not  follow  our  friend  into  the  soaring  realms 
of  his  imaginative  flight,  for  it  was  quite  evident  that  the 
tankard  and  the  tobacco  were  alone  responsible  for  the 
lofty  promises  of  his  production.  In  plain  English,  Mr. 
O’Leary  was  fuddled ; and  the  only  intelligible  part  of  his 
discourse  was  an  assurance  that  his  papers  were  entirely 
at  our  service,  and  that,  as  in  some  three  weeks’  time  he 
hoped  to  be  in  Africa,  having  promised  to  spend  the  Christ- 
mas with  Abd-el-Kader,  we  were  left  his  sole  literary  exec- 
utor, with  full  power  to  edit  him  in  any  shape  it  might 
please  us,  lopping,  cutting,  omitting,  — anything,  even  to 
adding  or  interpolating.  Such  were  his  last  orders ; and 
having  given  them,  Mr.  O’Leary  refilled  his  pipe,  closed 
his  eyes,  stretched  out  his  legs  to  their  fullest  extent,  and 
although  he  continued  at  long  intervals  to  evolve  a blue 
curl  of  smoke  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  it  was  evident 
he  was  lost  in  the  land  of  dreams. 

In  two  hours  afterwards  we  were  on  our  way  back  to 
Dublin,  bearing  with  us  the  oaken  box,  which,  however,  it 
is  but  justice  to  ourselves  to  say,  we  felt  as  a sad  exchange 


14 


INTRODUCTION. 


for  our  own  carefully-written  manuscript.  On  reaching 
home  our  first  care  was  to  examine  these  papers,  and  see 
if  anything  could  be  made  of  them  which  might  prove 
readable.  Unfortunately,  however,  the  mass  consisted  of 
brief  memoranda,  setting  forth  how  many  miles  Mr.  O’Leary 
had  walked  on  a certain  day  in  the  November  of  1803,  and 
how  he  had  supped  on  camel’s  milk  with  an  amiable  family 
of  Bedouins,  who  had  just  robbed  a caravan  in  the  desert. 
His  correspondence  was  for  the  most  part  an  angry  one 
with  washer-women  and  hotel-keepers,  and  some  rather 
curious  hieroglyphic  replies  to  dinner  invitations  from 
certain  people  of  rank  in  the  Sandwich  Islands.  Occa- 
sionally, however,  we  chanced  on  little  bits  of  narrative, 
fragments  of  stories,  some  of  which  his  fellow-travellers 
had  contributed,  and  brief  sketches  of  places  and  people 
that  were  rather  amusing;  but  so  disjointed,  broken  up, 
and  unconnected  were  they  all,  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
give  them  anything  like  an  arrangement,  much  less  any- 
thing like  consecutive  interest. 

All  that  lay  in  our  power  was  to  select  from  the  whole 
certain  portions  which,  from  their  length,  promised  more 
of  care  than  the  mere  fragments  about  them,  and  present 
them  to  our  readers  with  this  brief  notice  of  the  mode  in 
which  we  obtained  them,  — our  only  excuse  for  a most 
irregular  and  unprecedented  liberty  in  the  practice  of 
literature.  With  this  apology  for  the  incompleteness  and 
abruptness  of  “ The  O’Leary  Papers,”  — which  happily  we 
are  enabled  to  make  freely,  as  our  friend  Arthur  has  taken 
his  departure,  — we  offer  them  to  our  readers,  only  adding 
that,  in  proof  of  their  genuine  origin,  the  manuscript  can 
be  seen  by  any  one  so  desiring  it,  on  application  to  our 
publishers  ; while,  for  all  their  follies,  faults,  and  inaccura- 
cies, we  desire  to  plead  our  irresponsibility  as  freely  as 
we  wish  to  attribute  any  favor  the  world  may  show  them 
to  their  real  author ; and  with  this  last  assurance,  we  beg 
to  remain  your  ever  devoted  and  obedient  servant, 

Harry  Lorrequer. 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  “ATTWOOD.” 

Old  Woodcock  says  that  if  Providence  had  not  made  him 
a Justice  of  the  Peace,  he ’d  have  been  a vagabond  himself. 
No  such  kind  interference  prevailed  in  my  case.  I was  a 
vagabond  from  my  cradle.  I never  could  be  sent  to 
school  alone,  like  other  children ; they  always  had  to  see 
me  there  safe,  and  fetch  me  back  again.  The  rambling 
bump  monopolized  my  whole  head.  I ’m  sure  my  god- 
father must  have  been  the  Wandering  Jew,  or  a king’s 
messenger.  Here  I am  again,  en  route,  and  sorely  puzzled 
to  know  whither  ? There ’s  the  fellow  for  my  trunk. 

“ What  packet,  sir  ? ” 

“Eh  ? What  packet  ? The  vessel  at  the  Tower  stairs  ?” 
“Yes,  sir;  there  are  two  with  the  steam  up,  — the 
‘ Rotterdam  ’ and  the  ‘ Hamburgh.’  ” 

“ Which  goes  first  ? ” 

“Why,  I think  the  ‘Attwood,’  sir.” 

“ Well,  then,  shove  aboard  the  ‘ Attwood.’  Where  is 
she  for  ? ” 

“She’s  for  Rotterdam.  — He’s  a queer  cove,  too,”  said 
the  fellow  under  his  teeth,  as  he  moved  out  of  the  room, 
“ and  don’t  seem  to  care  where  he  goes.” 

A capital  lesson  in  life  may  be  learned  from  the  few 
moments  preceding  departure  from  an  inn.  The  surly 
waiter  that  always  said  “coming”  when  he  was  leaving 
the  room,  and  never  came,  now  grown  smiling  and  smirk- 
ing ; the  landlord  expressing  a hope  to  see  you  again, 


16 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


while  he  watches  your  upthrown  eyebrows  at  the  exorbi- 
tancy of  his  bill ; the  Boots  attentively  looking  from  your 
feet  to  your  face,  and  back  again ; the  housemaid  passing 
and  repassing  a dozen  times  on  her  way  nowhere,  with  a 
look  half  saucy,  half  shy ; the  landlord’s  son,  an  abortion 
of  two  feet  high,  a kind  of  family  chief-remembrancer, 
that  sits  on  a high  stool  in  a bar,  and  always  detects 
something  you  have  had  that  was  not  “put  down  in  the 
bill,”  — two  shillings  for  a cab,  or  a “brandy  and  water.” 
A curse  upon  them  all ! This  poll-tax  upon  travellers  is 
utter  ruin ; your  bill,  compared  to  its  dependencies,  is  but 
Falstaff’s  “ pennyworth  of  bread  ” to  all  the  score  for  sack. 

Well,  here  I am  at  last.  “ Take  care,  I say ! you  ’ll 
upset  us.  Shove  off,  Bill ; ship  your  oar  ! ” splash,  splash. 
“ Bear  a hand.  What  a noise  they  make  ! ” bang ! crash ! 
buzz  ! What  a crowd  of  men  in  pilot  coats  and  caps  ! 
women  in  plaid  shawls  and  big  reticules,  band-boxes,  bags, 
and  babies ; and  what  higgling  for  sixpences  with  the 
wherrymen ! 

All  the  places  round  the  companion  are  taken  by  pale 
ladies  in  black  silk,  with  a thin  man  in  spectacles  beside 
them ; the  deck  is  littered  with  luggage,  and  little  groups 
seated  thereon.  Some  very  strange  young  gentlemen,  with 
many-colored  waistcoats,  are  going  to  Greenwich,  and 
one  as  far  as  Margate ; a widow  and  daughters,  rather 
prettyish  girls,  for  Herne  Bay ; a thin,  bilious-looking  man 
of  about  fifty,  with  four  outside  coats,  and  a bear-skin 
round  his  legs,  reading  beside  the  wheel,  occasionally  tak- 
ing a sly  look  at  the  new  arrivals.  I ’ve  seen  him  before  ; 
he  is  the  Secretary  of  Embassy  at  Constantinople.  And 
here ’s  a jolly-looking,  rosy-cheeked  fellowr,  with  a fat 
florid  face,  and  two  dashing-looking  girls  in  black  velvet. 
Eh  ! who ’s  this  ? Sir  Peter,  the  steward  calls  him  ; a 
London  alderman  going  up  the  Rhine  for  two  months ; 
he ’s  got  his  courier,  and  a strong  carriage,  with  the  springs 
well  corded  for  the  pave.  But  they  come  too  fast  for 
counting ; so  now  I ’ll  have  a look  after  my  berth. 

Alas ! the  cabin  has  been  crowded  all  the  while  by  some 
fifty  others,  wrangling,  scolding,  laughing,  joking,  com- 
plaining, and  threatening,  and  not  a berth  to  be  had. 


THE  “ATTWOOD.’ 


17 


“ You ’ve  put  me  next  the  tiller/’  said  one.  “ I ’m  over 
the  boiler,”  screamed  another. 

“ I have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  Sir  Willoughby 
Steward,”  said  the  captain,  to  a tall,  gray-headed,  soldier- 
like figure,  with  a closely-buttoned  blue  frock.  “Sir 
Willoughby,  your  berth  is  No.  8.” 

“ Eh ! that ’s  the  way  they  come  it,”  whispers  a Cock- 
ney to  his  friend.  “That  ’ere  chap  gets  a berth  before  us 
all.” 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  says  the  baronet,  mildly;  “I 
took  mine  three  days  ago.” 

“ Oh,  I didn’t  mean  anything,”  stammers  out  the  other, 
and  sneaks  off. 

“ Laura-Mariar  ! where ’s  Laurar  ? ” calls  out  a shrill 
voice  from  the  aft-cabin. 

“ Here,  ma,”  replies  a pretty  girl,  who  is  arranging  her 
ringlets  at  a glass,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  a young 
fellow  in  a braided  frock,  that  stands  gazing  at  her  in  the 
mirror  with  something  very  like  a smile  on  his  lip. 

There ’s  no  mistaking  that  pair  of  dark-eyed  fellows 
with  aquiline  noses  and  black  ill-sliaven  beards,  — Ham- 
burgh or  Dutch  Jews,  dealers  in  smuggled  lace,  cigars, 
and  Geneva  watches,  and  occasionally  small  money- 
lenders. How  they  scan  the  company,  as  if  calculating 
the  profit  they  might  turn  them  to ! The  very  smile  they 
wear  seems  to  say,  “Comme  c’est  doux  de  tromper  les 
Chretiens.”  But,  halloa ! there  was  a splash ! we  are 
moving,  and  the  river  is  now  more  amusing  than  the 
passengers. 

I should  like  to  see  the  man  that  ever  saw  London  from 
the  Thames,  or  any  part  of  it,  save  the  big  dome  of  St. 
Paul’s,  the  top  of  the  Monument,  or  the  gable  of  the  great 
black  wharf  inscribed  with  “ Hodgson’s  Pale  Ale.”  What 
a devil  of  a row  they  do  make  ! I thought  we  were  into 
that  fellow.  See,  here ’s  a wherry  actually  under  our  bow. 
Where  is  she  now  ? Are  they  all  lost  already  ? No,  there 
they  go,  bobbing  up  and  down,  and  looking  after  us,  as  if 
asking  why  we  did  n’t  sail  over  them.  Ay,  there  comes  an 
Indiaman;  and  that  little  black  slug  that’s  towing  her  up 
against  the  stream  is  one  of  the  Tug  Company’s  craft ; and 

2 


18 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


see  how  all  the  others  at  anchor  keep  tossing  and  pitching 
about  as  we  pass  by,  like  an  awkward  room-full  of  com- 
pany, rising  at  each  new  arrival. 

There ’s  Greenwich  ! A fine  thing  Greenwich.  I like 
the  old  fellows  that  the  First  Lord  always  makes  stand  in 
front,  without  legs  or  arms ; a cheery  sight.  And  there ’s 
a hulk,  or  a hospital  ship,  or  something  of  that  kind. 

“ That ’s  the  ‘ Hexcellent,’  ” said  a shrill  voice  behind 
me. 

“Ah,  I know  her  ; she ’s  a revenue  cruiser.” 

Lord ! what  liars  the  Cockneys  are  ! The  plot  thickens 
every  moment.  Here  come  little  bright  green  and  gold 
things,  shooting  past  like  dragon-flies  skimming  the  water, 
steaming  down  to  Gravesend.  What  a mob  of  parasols 
cover  the  deck,  and  what  kissing  of  hands  and  waving 
of  handkerchiefs  to  anonymous  acquaintances  nowhere ! 
More  steamers  : here ’s  the  “Boulogne  boat,”  followed  by 
the  “ Ostender,”  and  there,  rounding  the  reach,  comes  the 
« Ramsgate  ; ” and  a white  funnel,  they  say,  is  the  Cork 
packet ; and  yonder,  with  her  steam  escaping,  is  the 
“ Edinburgh,”  her  deck  crowded  with  soldiers. 

“Port ; port  it  is  ! Steady  there,  steady.” 

“ Do  you  dine,  sir  ? ” quoth  the  steward  to  the  pale  gen- 
tleman. A faint  “Yes.”  “And  the  ladies  too?”  A 
more  audible  “No.” 

“ I say,  steward,”  cries  Sir  Peter,  “ what ’s  the  hour  for 
dinner  ? ” 

“ Four  o’clock,  sir,  after  we  pass  Gravesend.” 

“ Bring  me  some  brandy  and  water  and  a biscuit,  then.” 

“ Lud,  pa  ! ” 

“ To  be  sure,  dear,  we  shall  be  sick  in  the  pool.  They 
say  there ’s  a head  wind.” 

How  crowded  they  are  on  the  fore-part  of  the  vessel ! — 
six  carriages  and  eight  horses ; the  latter  belong  to  a Dutch 
dealer,  who,  by  the  bye,  seems  a shrewd  fellow,  and  well 
knowing  the  extreme  sympathy  between  horses  and  asses 
leaves  the  care  of  his  to  some  Cockneys,  who  come  down 
every  half-hour  to  look  after  the  tarpaulins,  inspect  the 
coverings,  see  the  knee-caps  safe,  and  ask  if  they  want 
“ ’ay } ” and  all  this,  that  to  some  others  on  board  they  may 


THE  “ATT WOOD.' 


19 


appear  as  sporting  characters,  well  versed  in  turf  affairs, 
and  quite  up  to  stable  management. 

When  the  life  and  animation  of  the  crowded  river  is 
passed,  how  vexatious  it  is  to  hear  for  the  thousandth  time 
the  dissertations  on  English  habits,  customs,  and  constitu- 
tion, delivered  by  some  ill-informed,  under-bred  fellow  or 
other  to  some  eager  German, — a Frenchman,  happily,  is 
too  self-sufficient  ever  to  listen, — who  greedily  swallows 
the  farrago  of  absurdity,  which,  according  to  the  politics 
of  his  informant,  represents  the  nation  in  a plethora  of 
prosperity  or  the  last  stage  of  inevitable  ruin.  I scarcely 
know  which  I detest  the  more  ; the  insane  toryism  of  the 
one  is  about  as  sickening  as  the  rabid  radicalism  of  the 
other.  The  absurd  misapprehensions  foreigners  entertain 
about  us  are  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  communicated  by  our 
own  people ; and  in  this  way  I have  always  remarked  a 
far  greater  degree  of  ignorance  about  England  and  the 
English  to  prevail  among  those  who  have  passed  some 
weeks  in  the  country,  than  among  such  as  had  never  vis- 
ited our  shores.  With  the  former,  the  Thames  Tunnel  is 
our  national  boast ; raw  beef  and  boxing  our  national  predi- 
lections ; the  public  sale  of  our  wives  a national  practice. 

“But  what’s  this  ? Our  paddles  are  backed.  Anything 
wrong,  steward  ? ” 

“ No,  sir,  only  another  passenger  coming  aboard.” 

“ How  they  pull,  and  there ’s  a stiff  sea  running,  too  ! 
A queer  figure  that  is  in  the  stern  sheets ; what  a beard 
he  has ! ” 

I had  just  time  for  the  observation,  when  a tall,  athletic 
man,  wrapped  in  a wide  blue  cloak,  sprang  on  the  deck. 
His  eyes  were  shaded  by  large  green  spectacles  and  the 
broad  brim  of  a very  projecting  hat ; a black  beard  a rabbi 
might  have  envied,  descended  from  his  chin,  and  hung 
down  upon  his  bosom  ; he  chucked  a crown-piece  to  the 
boatman  as  he  leaned  over  the  bulwark,  and  then  turning 
to  the  steward,  called  out,  — 

“ Eh,  Jem  ! all  right  ? ” 

“Yes,  sir,  all  right,”  said  the  man,  touching  his  hat 
respectfully. 

The  tall  figure  immediately  disappeared  down  the  com- 


20 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


panion  ladder,  leaving  me  in  the  most  puzzling  state  of 
doubt  as  to  what  manner  of  man  he  could  possibly  be. 
Had  the  problem  been  more  easy  of  solution  I should 
scarcely  have  resolved  it  when  he  again  emerged,  — but 
how  changed ! The  broad  beaver  had  given  place  to  a blue 
cloth  foraging-cap  with  a gold  band  around  it;  the  beard 
had  disappeared  totally,  and  left  no  successor  save  a well- 
rounded  chin ; the  spectacles  also  had  vanished,  and  a 
pair  of  sharp,  intelligent  gray  eyes,  with  a most  uncommon 
degree  of  knowingness  in  their  expression,  shone  forth  ; 
and  a thin  and  most  accurately  curled  mustache  graced  his 
upper  lip,  and  gave  a character  of  Vandykism  to  his  fea- 
tures, which  were  really  handsome.  In  person  he  was  some 
six  feet  two,  gracefully  but  strongly  built;  his  costume, 
without  anything  approaching  conceit,  was  the  perfection 
of  fashionable  attire,  — even  to  his  gloves  there  was  noth- 
ing which  D’Orsay  could  have  criticized ; while  his  walk 
was  the  very  type  of  that  mode  of  progression  which  is 
only  learned  thoroughly  by  a daily  stroll  down  St.  James 
Street,  and  the  frequent  practice  of  passing  to  and  from 
Crockford’s,  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night. 

The  expression  of  his  features  was  something  so  striking 
I could  not  help  noting  it.  There  was  a jauntiness,  an 
ease,  no-smirking,  half-bred,  self-satisfied  look,  such  as  a 
London  linen-draper  might  wear  on  his  trip  to  Margate ; 
but  a consummate  sense  of  his  own  personal  attractions 
and  great  natural  advantages  had  given  a character  to  his 
features  which  seemed  to  say,  “ It ’s  quite  clear  there ’s  no 
coming  up  to  me ; don’t  try  it,  — nascitur  non  fit  ” His 
very  voice  implied  it.  The  veriest  commonplace  fell  from 
him  with  a look,  a smile,  a gesture,  a something  or  other 
that  made  it  tell ; and  men  repeated  his  sayings  without 
knowing  that  his  was  a liquor  that  was  lost  in  decanting. 
The  way  in  which  he  scanned  the  passengers  — and  it  was 
done  in  a second  — was  the  practised  observance  of  one  who 
reads  character  at  a glance.  Over  the  Cockneys,  and  they 
were  numerous,  his  eyes  merely  passed  without  bestowing 
any  portion  of  attention ; while  to  the  lady  part  of  the 
company  his  look  was  one  of  triumphant  satisfaction,  such 
as  Louis  XIV.  might  have  bestowed  when  he  gazed  at 


THE  “ATT WOOD.1 


21 


the  thousands  in  the  garden  of  Versailles,  and  exclaimed, 
“ Oni ! ce  sont  mes  sujets.”  Such  was  the  Honorable  Jack 
Smallbranes,  younger  son  of  a peer,  ex-captain  in  the  Life 
Guards,  winner  of  the  Derby,  but  now  the  cleared-out  man 
of  fashion  flying  to  the  Continent  to  escape  from  the  Fleet, 
and  cautiously  coming  aboard  in  disguise  below  Gravesend, 
to  escape  the  bore  of  a bailiff,  and  what  he  called  the  horror 
of  bills  “ detested.? 

We  read  a great  deal  about  Cincinnatus  cultivating  his 
cabbages,  and  we  hear  of  Washington’s  retirement  when 
the  active  period  of  his  career  had  passed  over ; and  a 
hundred  similar  instances  are  quoted  for  our  admiration 
of  men  who  could  throw  themselves  at  once  from  all  the 
whirlwind  excitement  of  great  events,  and  seek  in  the 
humblest  and  least  obtrusive  position  an  occupation  and 
an  enjoyment.  But  I doubt  very  much  if  your  ex-man  of 
fashion,  your  ci-devant  winner  of  the  Derby,  the  adored  of 
A1  mack’s,  the  enfant  cheri  of  Crockford’s  and  the  Claren- 
don, whose  equipage  was  a model,  whose  plate  was  perfec- 
tion, for  whom  life  seemed  too  short  for  all  the  fascinations 
wealth  spread  around  him,  and  each  day  brought  the  one 
embarrassment  how  to  enjoy  enough,  — I repeat  it,  I doubt 
much  if  he,  when  the  hour  of  his  abdication  arrives  (and 
that  it  will  arrive  sooner  or  later  not  even  himself  enter- 
tains a doubt),  when  Holditch  protests,  and  Bevan  pro- 
ceeds; when  steeds  are  sold  at  Tattersall’s  and  pictures  at 
Christie’s  ; when  the  hounds  pass  over  to  the  next  new 
victim,  and  the  favorite  for  the  St.  Leger,  backed  with 
mighty  odds,  is  now  entered  under  another  name ; when  in 
lieu  of  the  bright  eyes  and  honied  words  that  make  life  a 
fairy  tale,  his  genii  are  black-whiskered  bailiffs  and  auc- 
tioneers’ appraisers,  — if  he,  when  the  tide  of  fortune  sets 
in  so  strong  against  him,  can  not  only  sustain  himself  for 
a while  against  it,  and  when  too  powerful  at  last,  can  lie 
upon  the  current  and  float  as  gayly  down,  as  ever  he  did 
joyously  up,  the  stream,  — then,  say  I,  all  your  ancient  and 
modern  instances  are  far  below  him.  All  your  warriors 
and  statesmen  are  but  poor  pretenders  compared  to  him : 
they  have  retired  like  rich  shop-keepers,  to  live  on  the  in- 
terest of  their  fortune,  which  is  fame  ; while  he,  deprived 


22 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


of  all  the  accessories  which  gave  him  rank,  place,  and  power, 
must  seek  within  his  own  resources  for  all  the  future  springs 
of  his  pleasure,  and  be  satisfied  to  stand  spectator  of  the 
game  in  which  he  was  once  the  principal  player. 

A most  admirable  specimen  of  this  philosophy  was  pre- 
sented by  our  new  passenger,  who,  as  he  lounged  against 
the  binnacle  and  took  a deliberate  survey  of  his  fellow- 
travellers,  formed  the  very  ideal  of  unbroken  ease  and  un- 
disturbed enjoyment.  He  knew  he  was  ruined;  he  knew 
he  had  neither  house  in  town  or  country ; neither  a steed 
nor  a yacht  nor  a preserve ; he  was  fully  aware  that  Storr 
and  Mortimer,  who  but  yesterday  would  have  given  him  a 
mountain  of  silver,  would  not  trust  him  with  a mustard-pot 
to-day ; that  even  the  “ legs  ” would  laugh  at  him  if  he 
offered  the  odds  on  the  Derby ; and  yet  if  you  were  bound 
on  oath  to  select  the  happiest  fellow  on  board,  by  the  testi- 
mony of  your  eyes,  the  choice  would  not  have  taken  you 
five  minutes.  His  attitude  was  ease  itself  ; his  legs  slightly 
crossed,  perhaps  the  better  to  exhibit  a very  well-rounded 
instep,  which  shone  forth  in  all  the  splendor  of  French 
varnish;  his  travelling- cap  jauntily  thrown  on  one  side  so 
as  to  display  to  better  advantage  his  perfumed  locks,  that 
floated  in  a graceful  manner  somewhat  lengthily  on  his 
neck ; the  shawl  around  his  neck  having  so  much  of  negli- 
gence as  to  show  that  the  splendid  enamel  pin  that  fastened 
it  was  a thing  of  little  moment  to  the  wearer.  All  were  in 
keeping  with  the  nonchalant  ease  and  self-satisfaction  of 
his  look,  as  with  half-drooping  lids  he  surveyed  the  deck, 
caressing  with  his  jewelled  fingers  the  silky  line  of  his 
mustache,  and  evidently  enjoying  in  his  inmost  soul  the 
triumphant  scene  of  conquest  his  very  appearance  excited. 
Indeed,  a less  practised  observer  than  himself  could  not 
fail  to  remark  the  unequivocal  evidences  the  lady  portion 
of  the  community  bore  to  his  success.  The  old  ones  looked 
boldly  at  him  with  that  fearless  intrepidity  that  character- 
izes conscious  security  ; their  property  was  insured,  and 
they  cared  not  how  near  the  fire  came  to  them.  The  very 
young  participated  in  the  sentiment  from  an  opposite  rea- 
son ; theirs  was  the  unconsciousness  of  danger.  But  there 
was  a middle  term,  what  Balzac  calls  “ la  femme  de  trente 


THE  “ATT WOOD.' 


23 


ans ; ” and  she  either  looked  over  the  bulwarks,  or  at  the 
funnel,  or  on  her  book,  anywhere  in  short  but  at  our  friend, 
who  appeared  to  watch  this  studied  denial  on  her  part  with 
the  same  kind  of  enjoyment  the  captain  of  a frigate  would 
contemplate  the  destruction  his  broadsides  were  making  on 
his  enemy’s  rigging ; and  perhaps  the  latter  never  deemed 
his  conquest  more  assured  by  the  hauling  down  of  the 
enemy’s  colors  than  did  the  Honorable  Jack  when  a let- 
down veil  convinced  him  that  the  lady  could  bear  no 
more. 

I should  like  to  have  watched  the  proceedings  on  deck, 
where,  although  no  acquaintance  had  yet  been  formed,  the 
indications  of  such  were  clearly  visible.  The  alderman’s 
daughters  evincing  a decided  preference  for  walking  on 
that  side  where  Jack  was  standing,  — he  studiously  per- 
forming some  small  act  of  courtesy  from  time  to  time  as 
they  passed,  removing  a seat,  kicking  any  small  fragment 
of  rope,  etc. ; but  the  motion  of  the  packet  warned  me  that 
note-taking  was  at  an  end,  and  the  best  thing  I could  do 
would  be  to  “ compose  ” myself. 

“ What ’s  the  number,  sir  ? ” said  the  steward,  as  I stag- 
gered down  the  companion. 

“ I have  got  no  berth,”  said  I,  mournfully. 

“A  dark  horse,  not  placed,”  said  the  Honorable  Jack, 
smiling  pleasantly  as  he  looked  after  me,  while  I threw 
myself  on  a sofa,  and  cursed  the  sea. 


CHAPTEK  II. 


THE  PASSPORT.  — A PERILOUS  ADVENTURE.  — MINE 
HOST  OF  THE  BOAR’S  HEAD. 

If  the  noise  and  bustle  which  attend  a wedding,  like 
trumpets  in  a battle,  are  intended  as  provisions  against 
reflection,  so  firmly  do  I feel  that  the  tortures  of  sea-sick- 
ness are  meant  as  antagonists  to  all  the  terrors  of  drown- 
ing and  all  the  horrors  of  shipwreck. 

Let  him  who  has  felt  the  agonies  of  that  internal  earth- 
quake which  the  “ pitch  and  toss  ” motion  of  a ship  com- 
municates, who  knows  what  it  is  to  have  his  diaphragm 
vibrating  between  his  ribs  and  the  back  of  his  throat,  con- 
fess how  little  to  him  was  all  the  confusion  which  he  lis- 
tened to  overhead,  how  poor  the  interest  he  took  in  the 
welfare  of  the  craft  wherein  he  was  “ only  a lodger,”  and 
how  narrowed  were  all  his  sympathies  within  the  small 
circle  of  bottled  porter  and  brandy  and  water,  the  steward’s 
infallibles  in  suffering. 

I lay  in  my  narrow  crib,  moodily  pondering  over  these 
things ; now  wondering  within  myself  what  charms  of 
travel  could  recompense  such  agonies  as  these  ; now  mut- 
tering a curse,  “ not  loud,  but  deep,”  on  the  heavy  gentle- 
man whose  ponderous  tread  on  the  quarter-deck  seemed  to 
promenade  up  and  down  the  surface  of  my  own  pericra- 
nium. The  greasy  steward,  the  jolly  captain,  the  brown- 
faced, black-whiskered  king’s  messenger,  who  snored  away 
on  the  sofa,  all  came  in  for  a share  of  my  maledictions, 
and  I took  out  my  cares  in  curses  upon  the  whole  party. 
Meanwhile  I could  distinguish,  amid  the  other  sounds,  the 
elastic  tread  of  certain  light  feet  that  pattered  upon  the 
quarter-deck ; and  I could  not  mistake  the  assured  footstep 
which  accompanied  them ; nor  did  I need  the  happy  roar 
of  laughter  that  mixed  with  the  noise  to  satisfy  myself 


THE  PASSPORT. 


25 


that  the  Honorable  Jack  was  then  cultivating  the  aider- 
man’s  daughters,  discoursing  most  eloquently  upon  the 
fascinations  of  those  exclusive  circles  wherein  he  was 
wont  to  move,  and  explaining,  on  the  clearest  principles, 
what  a frightful  chasm  his  absence  must  create  in  the  Lon- 
don world,  — how  deplorably  flat  the  season  would  go  off, 
where  he  was  no  actor, — and  wondering  who  among  the 
aspirants  of  high  ambition  would  venture  to  assume  his 
line  of  character  and  supply  his  place,  either  on  the  turf 
or  at  the  table. 

But  at  length  the  stage  of  semi-stupor  came  over  me ; 
the  noises  became  commixed  in  my  head,  and  I lost  all 
consciousness  so  completely,  that,  whether  from  brandy 
or  sickness,  I fancied  I saw  the  steward  flirting  with  the 
ladies,  and  the  Honorable  Jack  skipping  about  with  a white 
apron,  uncorking  porter  bottles,  and  changing  sixpences. 

The  same  effect  which  the  announcement  of  dinner  pro- 
duces on  the  stiff  party  in  the  drawing-room  is  caused  by 
the  information  of  being  alongside  the  quay,  to  the  passen- 
gers of  a packet.  It  is  true  the  procession  is  not  so  formal 
in  the  latter  as  in  the  former  case.  The  turbaned  dowagers 
that  take  the  lead  in  one  would  more  than  probably  be  last 
in  the  other;  but  what  is  lost  in  decorum  is  more  than 
made  up  in  hilarity.  What  hunting  for  carpet-bags  ! what 
opening  and  shutting  of  lockers  ! what  researches  into 
portmanteaus  to  extricate  certain  seizable  commodities  and 
stow  them  away  upon  the  person  of  the  owner,  till  at  last 
he  becomes  an  impersonation  of  smuggling,  with  lace  in 
his  boots,  silk  stockings  in  his  hat,  brandy  under  his  waist- 
coat, and  jewelry  in  the  folds  of  his  cravat ! There  is  not 
an  item  in  the  tariff  that  might  not  be  demonstrated  in  his 
anatomy.  From  his  shoes  to  his  night-cap,  he  is  a living 
sarcasm  upon  the  revenue.  And,  after  all,  what  is  the 
searching  scrutiny  of  your  Quarterly  Reviewer  to  the  all- 
penetrating  eye  of  an  excise  officer ! He  seems  to  look 
into  the  whole  contents  of  your  wardrobe  before  you  have 
unlocked  the  trunk  “ warranted  solid  leather,”  and  with  a 
glance  appears  to  distinguish  the  true  man  from  the  knave, 
knowing,  as  if  bv  intuition,  the  precise  number  of  cambric 


26 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


handkerchiefs  that  befit  your  condition  in  life,  and  whether 
you  have  transgressed  the  bounds  of  your  station  by  a 
single  bottle  of  Eau-de-Cologne. 

What  admirable  training  for  a novelist  would  a year  or 
two  spent  in  such  duties  afford ! what  singular  views  of 
life,  what  strange  people  must  he  see  ! how  much  of 
narrative  would  even  the  narrow  limits  of  a hat-box  pre- 
sent to  him  ; and  how  naturally  would  a story  spring  from 
the  rosy-cheeked  old  gentleman,  paying  his  duty  upon  a 
pate  de  foie  gras  to  his  pretty  daughter,  endeavoring  by  a 
smile  to  diminish  the  tariff  on  her  French  bonnet,  and 
actually  captivate  a custom-house  officer  by  the  charms  of 
her  robe  a la  Victorine. 

The  French  douaniers  are  droll  fellows,  and  are  the  only 
ones  I have  ever  met  who  descend  from  the  important 
gravity  of  their  profession,  and  venture  upon  a joke.  I 
shall  never  forget  entering  Valenciennes  late  one  night, 
with  a large  “ diligence”  party,  among  which  was  a corpu- 
lent countryman  of  my  own,  making  his  first  Continental 
tour.  It  was  in  those  days  when  a passport  presented  a 
written  portrait  of  the  bearer ; when  the  shape  of  your 
nose,  the  color  of  your  hair,  the  cut  of  your  beard,  and  the 
angle  of  incidence  of  your  eyebrow  were  all  noted  down 
and  commented  on,  and  a general  summing-up  of  the 
expression  of  your  features  collectively  appended  to  the 
whole ; and  you  went  forth  to  the  world  with  an  air 
“ mild  ” or  “ military,”  “ feeble,”  “ fascinating,”  or  “ fero- 
cious,” exactly  as  the  Foreign  Office  chose.  It  was  in 
those  days,  I say,  when  on  entering  the  fortress  of  Valen- 
ciennes the  door  of  the  diligence  was  rudely  thrown  open, 
and  by  the  dim  flicker  of  a lamp  we  beheld  a mustached, 
stern-looking  fellow,  who  rudely  demanded  our  passports. 
My  fat  companion,  suddenly  awakened  from  his  sleep, 
searched  his  various  pockets  with  all  the  trepidation  of  a 
new  traveller,  and  at  length  produced  his  credentials, 
which  he  handed,  with  a polite  bow,  to  the  official.  What- 
ever the  nature  of  the  description  might  have  been  I can- 
not say,  but  it  certainly  produced  the  most  striking  effect 
on  the  passport  officers,  who  laughed  loud  and  long  as  they 
read  it  over. 


A PERILOUS  ADVENTURE. 


27 


“ Descendez,  Monsieur/’  said  the  chief  of  the  party,  in 
a tone  of  stern  command. 

“ What  does  he  say  ? ” said  the  traveller,  in  a very 
decided  western  accent. 

“You  must  get  out,  sir,”  said  I. 

“ Tare-and-ages,”  said  Mr.  Moriarty,  “ what’s  wrong  ? ” 

After  considerable  squeezing,  for  he  weighed  about 
twenty  stone,  he  disengaged  himself  from  the  body  of  the 
diligence,  and  stood  erect  upon  the  ground.  A second 
lantern  was  now  produced,  and  while  one  of  the  officers 
stood  on  either  side  of  him,  with  a light  beside  his  face, 
a third  read  out  the  clauses  of  the  passport,  and  compared 
the  description  with  the  original.  Happily  Mr.  Moriarty’s 
ignorance  of  French  saved  him  from  the  penalty  of  lis- 
tening to  the  comments  which  were  passed  upon  his  nez 
retrousse,  louche  ouverte,  etc. ; but  what  was  his  surprise, 
when,  producing  some  yards  of  tape,  they  proceeded  to 
measure  him  round  the  body,  comparing  the  number  of 
inches  his  circumference  made  with  the  passport. 

“ Quatre-vingt-dix  pouces,”  said  the  measurer,  looking 
at  the  document.  “ II  en  a plus,”  added  he,  rudely. 

“ What  is  he  saying,  sir,  if  I might  be  so  bowld  ? ” said 
Mr.  Moriarty  to  me,  imploringly. 

“ You  measure  more  than  is  set  down  in  your  passport,” 
said  I,  endeavoring  to  suppress  my  laughter. 

“ Oh,  murther ! that  dish  of  boiled  beef  and  beet-root 
will  be  the  ruin  of  me.  Tell  them,  sir,  I was  like  a gray- 
hound  before  supper.” 

As  he  said  this,  he  held  in  his  breath,  and  endeavored 
with  all  his  might  to  diminish  his  size ; while  the  French- 
men, as  if  anxious  to  strain  a point  in  his  favor,  tightened 
the  cord  round  him,  till  he  almost  became  black  in  the 
face. 

“C’est  qa,”  said  one  of  the  officers,  smiling  blandly  as 
he  took  off  his  hat ; “ Monsieur  peut  continuer  sa  route.” 

“All  right,”  said  I ; “you  may  come  in,  Mr.  Moriarty.” 

“ ’T  is  civil  people  I always  heard  they  wor,”  said  he  ; 
“but  it’s  a sthrange  country  where  it’s  against  the  laws 
to  grow  fatter.” 

I like  Holland.  It  is  the  antipodes  of  France.  No  one 


28 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


is  ever  in  a hurry  here.  Life  moves  on  in  a slow  majestic 
stream,  — a little  muddy  and  stagnant,  perhaps,  like  one 
of  their  own  canals,  but  you  see  no  waves,  no  breakers  ; not 
an  eddy,  nor  even  a froth-bubble  breaks  the  surface.  Even 
a Dutch  child,  as  he  steals  along  to  school  smoking  his 
short  pipe,  has  a mock  air  of  thought  about  him.  The 
great  fat  horses  that  wag  along,  trailing  behind  them  some 
petty,  insignificant  truck,  loaded  with  a little  cask  not 
bigger  than  a Life  Guardsman’s  helmet,  look  as  though 
Erasmus  was  performing  duty  as  a quadruped,  and  walk- 
ing about  his  own  native  city  in  harness.  It  must  be  a 
glorious  country  to  be  born  in.  No  one  is  ever  in  a pas- 
sion ; and  as  to  honesty,  who  has  energy  enough  to  turn 
robber  ? The  eloquence  which  in  other  lands  might  wind 
a man  from  his  allegiance,  would  be  tried  in  vain  here. 
Ten  minutes’  talking  would  set  any  audience  asleep,  from 
Zetland  to  Antwerp.  Smoking,  beer-drinking,  stupefying, 
and  domino-playing  go  on  in  summer,  before,  in  winter 
within,  the  cafes ; and  every  broad  flat  face  you  look 
upon,  with  its  watery  eyes  and  muddy  complexion, 
seems  like  a colored  chart  of  the  country  that  gave  it 
birth. 

How  all  the  industry  that  has  enriched  them  is  ever 
performed,  how  all  the  cleanliness  for  which  their  houses 
are  conspicuous  is  ever  effected,  no  one  can  tell.  Who 
ever  saw  a Dutchman  labor  ? Everything  in  Holland 
seems  typified  by  one  of  their  own  drawbridges,  which 
rises  as  a boat  approaches,  by  invisible  agency,  and  then 
remains  patiently  aloft  till  a sufficiency  of  passengers 
arrives  to  restore  it  to  its  place ; and  Dutch  gravity  seems 
the  grand  centre  of  all  prosperity. 

When,  therefore,  my  fellow-passengers  stormed  and 
swore  because  they  were  not  permitted  to  land  their  lug- 
gage ; when  they  heard  that  until  nine  o’clock  the  follow- 
ing morning  no  one  would  be  astir  to  examine  it;  and  that 
the  Rhine  steamer  sailed  at  eight,  and  would  not  sail  again 
for  three  days  more,  and  cursed  the  louder  thereat,  — I 
chuckled  to  myself  that  I was  going  nowhere,  that  I cared 
not  how  long  I waited  nor  where,  and  began  to  believe 
that  something  of  very  exalted  philosophy  must  have  been 


A PERILOUS  ADVENTURE. 


29 


infused  into  my  nature  without  my  ever  being  aware 
of  it. 

For  twenty  minutes  and  more,  Sir  Peter  abused  the 
Dutch ; he  called  them  hard  names  in  English,  and  some 
very  strong  epithets  in  bad  French.  Meanwhile,  his  cou- 
rier busied  himself  in  preparations  for  departure,  and  the 
Honorable  Jack  undertook  to  shawl  the  young  ladies,  — 
a performance  which,  whether  from  the  darkness  of  the 
night  or  the  intricacy  of  the  muffling,  took  a most  unmer 
ciful  time  to  accomplish. 

“We  shall  never  find  the  hotel  at  this  hour,”  said  Sir 
Peter,  angrily. 

“The  house  will  certainly  be  closed,”  chimed  in  the 
young  ladies. 

“Take  your  five  to  two  on  the  double  event,”  replied 
Jack,  slapping  the  alderman  on  the  shoulder,  and  prepar- 
ing to  book  the  wager. 

I did  not  wait  to  see  it  accepted,  but  stepped  over  the 
side,  and  trudged  along  the  Boomjes,  that  long  quay,  with 
its  tall  elm  trees,  under  whose  shade  many  a burgomaster 
has  strolled  at  eve,  musing  over  the  profits  which  his  last 
venture  from  Batavia  was  to  realize ; and  then,  having 
crossed  the  narrow  bridge  at  the  end,  I traversed  the 
Erasmus  Platz,  and  rang  boldly,  as  an  old  acquaintance 
has  a right  to  do,  at  the  closed  door  of  the  Schwein  Kopf. 
My  summons  was  not  long  unanswered,  and  following  the 
many-petticoated  handmaiden  along  the  well-sanded  pas- 
sage, I asked,  “ Is  the  Holbein  chamber  unoccupied  ? ” 
while  I drew  forth  a florin  from  my  purse. 

“ Ah,  Mynheer  knows  it,  then,”  said  she,  smiling.  “ It 
is  at  your  service.  We  have  had  no  travellers  for  some 
days  past,  and  you  are  aware  that  unless  we  are  greatly 
crowded  we  never  open  it.” 

This  I knew  well ; and  having  assured  her  that  I was 
an  habitue  of  the  Schwein  Kopf  in  times  long  past,  I 
persuaded  her  to  fetch  some  dry  wood  and  make  me  a 
cheerful  fire,  which,  with  a “ krug  of  schiedam  ” and  some 
“ canastre,”  made  me  happy  as  a king. 

The  Holbeiner  Rammer  owes  its  name  and  any  repute  that 
it  enjoys  to  a strange,  quaint  portrait  of  that  master  seated 


30 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


at  a fire,  with  a fair-headed,  handsome  child  sitting  cross- 
legged  on  the  hearth  before  him.  A certain  half-resem- 
blance seems  to  run  through  both  faces,  although  the  age 
and  coloring  are  so  different.  But  the  same  contemplative 
expression,  the  deep-set  eye,  the  massive  forehead  and 
pointed  chin,  are  to  be  seen  in  the  child  as  in  the  man. 

This  was  Holbein  and  his  nephew,  Franz  von  Holbein, 
who  in  after  years  served  with  distinction  in  the  army  of 
Louis  XIV.  The  background  of  the  picture  represents  a 
room  exactly  like  the  chamber,  — a few  highly-carved  oak 
chairs,  the  Utrecht-velvet  backs  glowing  with  their  scarlet 
brilliancy ; an  old-fashioned  Flemish  bed,  with  groups  of 
angels,  Neptunes,  bacchanals,  and  dolphins  all  mixed  up 
confusedly  in  quaint  carving;  and  a massive  frame  to  a 
very  small  looking-glass,  which  hung  in  a leaning  attitude 
over  the  fireplace,  and  made  me  think,  as  I gazed  at  it, 
that  the  plane  of  the  room  was  on  an  angle  of  sixty-five, 
and  that  the  least  shove  would  send  me  clean  into  the 
stove. 

“Mynheer  wants  nothing?”  said  the  Vrow  with  a 
curtsey. 

“Nothing,”  said  I,  with  my  most  polite  bow. 

“ Good  night,  then,”  said  she  ; “ schlaf  wohl,  and  don’t 
mind  the  ghost.” 

“Ah,  I know  him  of  old,”  replied  I,  striking  the  table 
three  times  with  my  cane.  The  woman,  whose  voice  the 
moment  before  was  in  a tone  of  jest,  suddenly  grew  pale, 
and  as  she  crossed  herself  devoutly  muttered,  “Nein! 
nein ! don’t  do  that ! ” and  shutting  the  door,  hurried 
downstairs  with  all  the  speed  she  coidd  muster. 

I was  in  no  hurry  to  go  to  bed,  however.  The  krug  was 
racy,  the  canastre  excellent ; so,  placing  the  light  where 
its  rays  might  fall  with  good  effect  on  the  Holbein,  I 
stretched  out  my  legs  to  the  blaze,  and  as  I looked  upon 
the  canvas,  began  to  muse  over  the  story  with  which  it 
was  associated,  and  which  I may  as  well  jot  down  here  for 
the  reader’s  sake. 

Frank  Holbein,  having  more  ambition  and  less  industry 
than  the  rest  of  the  family,  resolved  to  seek  his  fortune ; 
and  early  in  the  September  of  the  year  1G81  he  found 


A PERILOUS  ADVENTURE. 


31 


himself  wandering  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  without  a Hard 
in  his  pocket,  or  any  prospects  of  earning  one.  He  was  a 
tine-looking,  handsome  youth,  of  some  eighteen  or  twenty 
years,  with  that  Spanish  cast  of  face  for  which  so  many 
Dutch  families  are  remarkable.  He  sat  down,  weary  and 
hungry,  on  one  of  the  benches  of  the  Pont  de  la  Cite,  and 
looked  about  him  wistfully,  to  see  what  piece  of  fortune 
might  come  to  his  succor.  A loud  shout,  and  the  noise 
of  people  hastening  in  every  direction,  attracted  him.  He 
jumped  up  and  saw  persons  running  hither  and  thither  to 
escape  from  a caleche  which  a pair  of  runaway  horses 
were  tearing  along  at  a frightful  rate.  Frank  blessed 
himself,  threw  off  his  cloak,  pressed  his  cap  firmly  upon 
his  brow,  and  dashed  forward.  The  affrighted  animals 
slackened  their  speed  as  he  stood  before  them,  and  endeav- 
ored to  pass  by ; but  be  sprang  to  their  heads,  and  with 
one  vigorous  plunge  grasped  the  bridle.  Though  he  held 
on  manfully,  they  continued  their  way  ; and  notwith- 
standing his  every  effort  their  mad  speed  scarcely  felt  his 
weight,  as  he  was  dragged  along  beside  them.  With 
one  tremendous  effort,  however,  he  wrested  the  near 
horse’s  head  from  the  pole,  and  thus  compelling  him  to 
cross  his  forelegs  the  animal  tripped,  and  came  headlong 
to  the  ground  with  a smash  that  sent  poor  Frank  spinning 
some  twenty  yards  before  them.  Frank  soon  got  up  again ; 
and  though  his  forehead  was  bleeding  and  his  hand  se- 
verely cut,  his  greatest  grief  was  his  torn  doublet,  which, 
threadbare  before,  now  hung  around  him  in  ribbons. 

“ It  was  you  who  stopped  them  ? Are  you  hurt  ? ” said 
a tall,  handsome  man,  plainly  but  well  dressed,  and  in  whose 
face  the  trace  of  agitation  was  clearly  marked. 

“ Yes,  sir,”  said  Frank,  bowing  respectfully.  “ I did  it  j 
and  see  how  my  poor  doublet  has  suffered ! ” 

“Nothing  worse  than  that?”  said  the  other,  smiling 
blandly.  “Well,  well,  that  is  not  of  so  much  moment. 
Take  this,”  said  he,  handing  him  his  purse  ; “buy  yourself 
a new  doublet,  and  wait  on  me  to-morrow  by  eleven.” 

With  these  words  the  stranger  disappeared  in  a caleche , 
which  seemed  to  arrive  at  the  moment,  leaving  Frank  in  a 
state  of  wonderment  at  the  whole  adventure. 


32 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ How  droll  lie  should  never  have  told  me  where  he 
lives  ! ” said  he,  aloud,  as  the  bystanders  crowded  about 
him,  and  showered  questions  upon  him. 

“ It  is  Monsieur  le  Ministre,  man,  — M.  de  Louvois  him- 
self, — whose  life  you’ve  saved.  Your  fortune  is  made  for- 
ever.” 

The  speech  was  a true  one.  Before  three  months  from 
that  eventful  day,  M.  de  Louvois,  who  had  observed  and 
noted  down  certain  traits  of  acuteness  in  Frank’s  character, 
sent  for  him  to  his  bureau. 

“ Holbein,”  said  he,  “ I have  seldom  been  deceived  in  my 
opinion  of  men.  You  can  be  secret,  I think  ? ” 

Frank  placed  his  hand  upon  his  breast,  and  bowed  in 
silence. 

“ Take  the  dress  you  will  find  on  that  chair ; a carriage 
is  now  ready,  waiting  in  the  courtyard ; get  into  it,  and 
set  out  for  Bale.  On  your  arrival  there,  which  will  be  — 
mark  me  well  — about  eight  o’clock  on  the  morning  of 
Thursday,  you  ’ll  leave  the  carriage  and  send  it  into  the 
town,  while  you  must  station  yourself  on  the  bridge  over 
the  Rhine,  and  take  an  exact  note  of  everything  that  oc- 
curs and  every  one  that  passes,  till  the  cathedral  clock 
strikes  three.  Then  the  caleche  will  be  in  readiness  for 
your  return  ; and  lose  not  a moment  in  repairing  to  Paris.” 

It  was  an  hour  beyond  midnight,  in  the  early  part  of 
the  following  week,  that  a caleche,  travel-stained  and  dirty, 
drove  into  the  court  of  the  minister’s  hotel,  and  five  min- 
utes after,  Frank,  wearied  and  exhausted,  was  ushered  into 
M.  de  Louvois’  presence. 

“Well,  Monsieur,”  said  he,  impatiently,  “what  have 
you  seen  ? ” 

“This,  may  it  please  your  Excellency,”  said  Frank, 
trembling,  “ is  a note  of  it ; but  I am  ashamed  that  so 
trivial  an  account  — ” 

“ Let  us  see,  let  us  see,”  said  the  minister. 

“ In  good  truth,  I dare  scarcely  venture  to  read  such  a 
puerile  detail.” 

“ Read  it  at  once,  Monsieur,”  was  the  stern  command. 

Frank’s  face  became  deep-red  with  shame,  as  he  began 
thus : — 


A PERILOUS  ADVENTURE. 


33 


“ Nine  o'clock.  — I see  an  ass  coming  along,  with  a child  leading 
him.  The  ass  is  blind  of  one  eye.  — A fat  German  sits  on  the  bal- 
cony, and  is  spitting  into  the  Rhine. 

“ Ten.  — A livery  servant  from  Bale  rides  by,  with  a basket.  An 
old  peasant  in  a yellow  doublet  — ” 

“ Ah,  what  of  him  ? ” 

“Nothing  remarkable,  save  that  he  leans  over  the  rails 
and  strikes  three  blows  with  his  stick  upon  them.” 

“ Enough,  enough,”  said  M.  de  Louvois,  gayly.  “ I must 
awake  the  king  at  once.” 

The  minister  disappeared,  leaving  Frank  in  a state  of 
bewilderment.  In  less  than  a quarter  of  an  hour  he  en- 
tered the  chamber,  his  face  covered  with  smiles. 

“Monsieur,”  said  he,  “you  have  rendered  his  Majesty 
good  service.  Here  is  your  brevet  of  colonel.  The  king 
has  this  instant  signed  it.” 

In  eight  days  after  was  the  news  known  in  Paris  that 
Strasburg,  then  invested  by  the  French  army,  had  capitu- 
lated, and  been  reunited  to  the  kingdom,  — the  three 
strokes  of  the  cane  being  the  signal  which  announced  the 
success  of  the  secret  negotiation  between  the  ministers  of 
Louis  XIV.  and  the  magistrates  of  Strasburg. 

This  was  the  Franz  Holbein  of  the  picture,  and  if  the 
three  coups  de  buton  are  not  attributable  to  his  ghost,  I can 
only  say  I am  totally  at  a loss  to  tell  where  they  should 
be  charged.  For  my  own  part,  I ought  to  add  that  I never 
heard  them,  — conduct  which  I take  it  was  the  more  un- 
gracious on  the  ghost’s  part,  as  I finished  the  schiedam, 
and  passed  my  night  on  the  hearth-rug,  leaving  the  feather 
bed  with  its  down  coverlet  quite  at  Master  Frank’s 
disposal. 

Although  the  Schwein  Kopf  stands  in  one  of  the  most 
prominent  squares  of  Rotterdam,  and  nearly  opposite  the 
statue  of  Erasmus,  it  is  comparatively  little  known  to  Eng- 
lish travellers.  The  fashionable  hotels  which  are  near  the 
quay  anticipate  the  claims  of  this  more  primitive  house; 
and  yet  to  any  one  desirous  of  observing  the  ordinary  rou- 
tine of  a Dutch  family,  it  is  well  worth  a visit.  The  buxom 
vrows  who  trudge  about  with  short  but  voluminous  petti- 
coats, their  heads  ornamented  by  those  gold  or  silver  cir- 

3 


34 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


clets  which  no  Dutch  peasant  seems  ever  to  lack,  are 
exactly  the  very  types  of  what  you  see  in  an  Ostade  or  a 
Teniers.  The  very  host  himself,  old  Hoogendorp,  is  a study. 
Scarcely  five  feet  in  height,  he  might  measure  nearly  nine 
in  circumference,  and  in  case  of  emergency  could  be  used 
as  a sluice-gate  should  anything  happen  to  the  dykes.  He 
was  never  to  be  seen  before  one  o’clock  in  the  day,  but 
exactly  as  the  clock  tolled  that  hour,  the  massive  soup- 
tureen,  announcing  the  commencement  of  the  table  (Vhote, 
was  borne  in  state  before  him,  while  with  “ solemn  step 
and  slow,”  ladle  in  hand,  and  napkin  round  his  neck,  he 
followed  after.  His  conduct  at  table  was  a fine  specimen 
of  Dutch  independence  of  character ; he  never  thought 
of  bestowing  those  petty  attentions  which  might  cultivate 
the  good-will  of  his  guests;  he  spoke  a little,  he  smiled 
never ; a short  nod  of  recognition  bestowed  upon  a towns- 
man was  about  the  extent  of  royal  favor  he  was  ever  known 
to  confer ; or  occasionally,  when  any  remark  made  near 
him  seemed  to  excite  his  approbation,  a significant  grunt 
of  approval  ratified  the  wisdom  of  the  speech,  and  made 
a Solon  of  the  speaker.  His  ladle  descended  into  the  soup, 
and  emerged  therefrom  with  the  ponderous  regularity  of  a 
crane  into  the  hold  of  a ship.  Every  function  of  the  table 
was  performed  with  an  unbroken  monotony,  and  never,  in 
the  course  of  his  forty  years’  sovereignty,  was  he  known 
to  distribute  an  undue  quantity  of  fat,  or  an  unseemly 
proportion  of  beet-root  sauce,  to  any  one  guest  in  prefer- 
ence to  another.  The  table  cVhbte,  which  began  at  one, 
concluded  a little  before  three,  during  which  time  our  host, 
when  not  helping  others,  was  busily  occupied  in  helping 
himself;  and  it  was  truly  amazing  to  witness  the  steady 
perseverance  with  which  he  waded  through  every  dish, 
making  himself  master  in  all  its  details  of  every  portion 
of  the  dinner,  from  the  greasy  soup  to  that  acme  of  Dutch 
epicurism,  — Utrecht  cheese. 

About  a quarter  before  three,  the  long  dinner  drew  to 
its  conclusion.  Many  of  the  guests,  indeed,  had  disap- 
peared long  before  that  time,  and  were  deep  in  all  their 
wonted  occupations  of  timber,  tobacco,  and  train-oil.  A 
few,  however,  lingered  on  to  the  last:  a burly  major  of 


MINE  HOST  OF  THE  BOAR’S  HEAD. 


35 


infantry,  who  unbuttoning  his  undress  frock  towards  the 
close  of  the  feast  would  sit  smoking  and  sipping  his  coffee 
as  if  unwilling  to  desert  the  field,  a grave  long-haired  pro- 
fessor, and  perhaps  an  officer  of  the  excise  waiting  for  the 
re-opening  of  the  custom-house,  would  form  the  company. 
But  even  these  dropped  off  at  last,  and  with  a deep  bow  to 
mine  host  passed  away  to  their  homes  or  their  haunts. 
Meanwhile  the  waiters  hurried  hither  and  thither,  the  cloth 
was  removed,  in  its  place  a fresh  one  was  spread,  and  all 
the  preliminaries  for  a new  dinner  were  set  about  with  the 
same  activity  as  before.  The  napkins  enclosed  in  their 
little  horn  cases,  the  decanters  of  beer,  the  small  dishes  of 
preserved  fruit,  without  which  no  Dutchman  dines,  were 
all  set  forth,  and  the  host,  without  stirring  from  his  seat, 
sat  watching  the  preparations  with  calm  complacency. 
Were  you  to  note  him  narrowly,  you  could  perceive  that 
his  eyes  alternately  opened  and  shut,  as  if  relieving  guard, 
save  which  he  gave  no  other  sign  of  life ; nor  even  at  last, 
when  the  mighty  stroke  of  three  rang  out  from  the  cathe- 
dral, and  the  hurrying  sound  of  many  feet  proclaimed  the 
arrival  of  the  guests  of  the  second  table,  did  he  ever  ex- 
hibit the  slightest  show  or  mark  of  attention,  but  sat  calm 
and  still  and  motionless. 

For  the  next  two  hours  it  was  merely  a repetition  of  the 
performance  which  preceded  it,  in  which  the  host’s  part 
was  played  with  untiring  energy,  and  all  the  items  of  soup, 
fish,  bouilli,  fowl,  pork,  and  vegetables  had  not  to  complain 
of  any  inattention  to  their  merits,  or  any  undue  preference 
for  their  predecessors  of  an  hour  before.  If  the  traveller 
was  astonished  at  his  appetite  during  the  first  table,  what 
would  he  say  to  his  feats  at  the  second ! As  for  myself,  I 
honestly  confess  I thought  that  some  harlequin-trick  was 
concerned,  and  that  mine  host  of  the  Schwein  Kopf  was  not 
a real  man,  but  some  mechanical  contrivance  by  which,  with 
a trap-door  below  him,  a certain  portion  of  the  dinner  was 
conveyed  to  the  apartments  beneath.  I lived,  however,  to 
discover  my  error;  and  after  four  visits  to  Rotterdam,  I 
was  at  length  so  far  distinguished  as  actually  to  receive 
an  invitation  to  pass  an  evening  with  Mynheer  in  his  own 
private  den,  which,  I need  scarcely  say,  I gladly  accepted. 


36 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


I have  a note  of  that  evening  somewhere  — ay,  here 
it  is:  — 

“Mynheer  is  waiting  supper,”  said  a waiter  to  me,  as  I 
sat  smoking  my  cigar  one  calm  evening  in  autumn  in  the 
porch  of  the  Schwein  Kopf.  I followed  the  man  through 
a long  passage,  which,  leading  to  the  kitchen,  emerged  on 
the  opposite  side,  and  conducted  us  through  a little  garden 
to  a small  summer-house.  The  building,  which  was  of 
wood,  was  painted  in  gaudy  stripes  of  red,  blue,  and  yel- 
low, and  made  in  some  sort  to  resemble  those  Chinese 
pagodas  we  see  upon  a saucer.  Its  situation  was  con- 
ceived in  the  most  perfect  Dutch  taste.  One  side,  flanked 
by  the  little  garden  of  which  I have  spoken,  displayed  a 
rich  bed  of  tulips  and  ranunculuses,  in  all  the  gorgeous 
luxuriance  of  perfect  culture,  — it  was  a mass  of  blended 
beauty  and  perfume  superior  to  anything  I have  ever  wit- 
nessed; on  the  other  flank  lay  the  sluggish,  green-coated 
surface  of  a Dutch  canal,  from  which  rose  the  noxious 
vapors  of  a hot  evening  and  the  harsh  croakings  of  ten 
thousand  frogs,  “fat,  gorbellied  knaves,”  the  very  burgo- 
masters of  their  race,  who  squatted  along  the  banks,  and 
who,  except  for  the  want  of  pipes,  might  have  been  mis- 
taken for  small  Dutchmen  enjoying  an  evening’s  prome- 
nade. This  building  was  denominated  “Lust  und  Rust,” 
which  in  letters  of  gold  was  displayed  on  something  resem- 
bling a sign-board  above  the  door,  and  intimated  to  the 
traveller  that  the  temple  was  dedicated  to  pleasure  and 
contentment.  To  a Dutchman,  however,  the  sight  of  the 
portly  figure  who  sat  smoking  at  the  open  window  was  a 
far  more  intelligible  illustration  of  the  objects  of  the  build- 
ing than  any  lettered  inscription.  Mynheer  Hoogendorp, 
with  his  long  Dutch  pipe,  and  tall  flagon  with  its  shining 
brass  lid,  looked  the  concentrated  essence  of  a Hollander, 
and  might  have  been  hung  out  as  a sign  of  the  country 
from  the  steeple  of  Haarlem. 

The  interior  was  in  perfect  keeping  with  the  designation 
of  the  building.  Every  appliance  that  could  suggest  ease, 
if  not  sleep,  was  there.  The  chairs  were  deep,  plethoric- 
looking  Dutch  chairs,  that  seemed  as  if  they  had  led  a 
sedentary  life,  and  throve  upon  it;  the  table  was  a short 
thick-legged  one,  of  dark  oak,  whose  polished  surface 


MINE  HOST  OF  TIIE  BOAR’S  HEAD. 


37 


reflected  the  tall  brass  cups  and  the  ample  features  of 
Mynheer,  and  seemed  to  hobnob  with  him  when  he  lifted 
the  capacious  vessel  to  his  lips;  the  walls  were  decorated 
with  quaint  pipes,  whose  large  porcelain  bowls  bespoke 
them  of  home  origin,  and  here  and  there  a sea-fight,  with 
a Dutch  three-decker  hurling  destruction  on  the  enemy. 
But  the  genius  of  the  place  was  its  owner,  who  in  a low  fur 
cap  and  slippers,  whose  shape  and  size  might  have  drawn 
tears  of  envy  from  the  Ballast  Board,  sat  gazing  upon  the  ca- 
nal in  a state  of  Dutch  rapture,  very  like  apoplexy.  He 
motioned  me  to  a chair  without  speaking;  he  directed  me  to 
a pipe,  by  a long  whiff  of  smoke  from  his  own ; he  grunted 
out  a welcome,  and  then,  as  if  overcome  by  such  unaccus- 
tomed exertion,  he  layback  in  his  chair,  and  sighed  deeply. 

We  smoked  till  the  sun  went  down,  and  a thicker  haze, 
rising  from  the  stagnant  ditch,  joined  with  the  tobacco 
vapor,  made  an  atmosphere  like  mud  reduced  to  gas. 
Through  the  mist  I saw  a vision  of  soup-tureens,  hot 
meat,  and  smoking  vegetables.  I beheld  as  though  Myn- 
heer moved  among  the  condiments,  and  I have  a faint 
dreamy  recollection  of  his  performing  some  feat  before 
me,  — but  whether  it  was  carving,  or  the  sword  exercise, 
I won’t  be  positive. 

Now,  though  the  schiedam  was  strong,  a spell  was  upon 
me,  and  I could  not  speak ; the  great  green  eyes  that  glared 
on  me  through  the  haze  seemed  to  chill  my  very  soul ; and 
I drank,  out  of  desperation,  the  deeper.  As  the  evening 
wore  on,  I waxed  bolder;  I had  looked  upon  the  Dutchman 
so  long  that  my  awe  of  him  began  to  subside,  and  I at  last 
grew  bold  enough  to  address  him.  I remember  well  that 
it  was  pretty  much  with  that  kind  of  energy,  that  semi- 
desperation, with  which  a man  nerves  himself  to  accost  a 
spectre,  that  I ventured  on  addressing  him.  How  or  in  what 
terms  I did  it,  Heaven  knows!  Some  trite  every-day 
observation  about  his  great  knowledge  of  life,  his  wonder- 
ful experience  of  the  world,  was  all  I could  muster;  and 
when  I had  made  it,  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  terrified 
me  so  much  that  I finished  the  can  at  a draught,  to  reani- 
mate my  courage. 

“ Ja,  Ja!  ” said  Van  Hoogendorp,  in  a cadence  as  solemn 
as  the  bell  of  the  cathedral;  “I  have  seen  many  strange 


4093&7 


38 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


things;  I remember  what  few  men  living  can  remember. 
I mind  well  the  time  when  the  ‘ Hollandische  Vrow  5 made 
her  first  voyage  from  Batavia,  and  brought  back  a paroquet 
for  the  burgomaster’s  wife.  The  great  trees  upon  the 
Boomjes  were  but  saplings  when  I was  a boy;  they  were 
not  thicker  than  my  waist,”  — here  he  looked  down  upon 
himself  with  as  much  complacency  as  though  he  were  a 
sylph.  “Acli  Gott!  they  were  brave  times;  schiedam  cost 
only  half  a guilder  the  krug.” 

I waited  in  hopes  he  would  continue,  but  the  glorious 
retrospect  he  had  evoked  seemed  to  occupy  all  his  thoughts, 
and  he  smoked  away  without  ceasing. 

“You  remember  the  Austrians,  then?”  said  I,  byway 
of  drawing  him  on. 

“They  were  dogs,”  said  he,  spitting  out. 

“Ah,”  said  I,  “the  Trench  were  better,  then  ?” 

“Wolves!”  ejaculated  he,  after  glowering  on  me 
fearfully. 

There  was  a long  pause  after  this;  I perceived  that  I 
had  taken  a wrong  path  to  lead  him  into  conversation,  and 
he  was  too  deeply  overcome  with  indignation  to  speak. 
During  this  time,  however,  his  anger  took  a thirsty  form, 
and  he  swigged  away  at  the  schiedam  most  manfully. 

The  effect  of  his  libations  became  at  last  evident;  his 
great  green  stagnant  eyes  flashed  and  flared,  his  wide 
nostrils  swelled  and  contracted,  and  his  breathing  became 
short  and  thick,  like  the  convulsive  sobs  of  a steam-engine 
when  they  open  and  shut  the  valves  alternately.  I watched 
these  indications  for  some  time,  wondering  what  they  might 
portend,  when  at  length  he  withdrew  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  and  with  such  a tone  of  voice  as  he  might  have 
used  if  confessing  a bloody  and  atrocious  murder,  he 
said,  — 

“I  will  tell  you  a story.” 

Had  the  great  stone  figure  of  Erasmus  beckoned  to  me 
across  the  market-place,  and  asked  me  the  news  “on 
Change,”  I could  not  have  been  more  amazed;  and  not 
venturing  on  the  slightest  interruption,  I refilled  my  pipe, 
and  nodded  sententiously  across  the  table,  while  he  thus 
began. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MINE  HOST’S  TALE. 


“ It  was  in  the  winter  of  the  year  1806,  the  first  week  of 
December;  the  frost  was  setting  in,  and  I resolved  to  pay 
a visit  to  my  brother,  whom  1 hadn’t  seen  for  forty  years: 
he  was  burgomaster  of  Antwerp.  It  is  a long  voyage  and 
a perilous  one,  but  with  the  protection  of  Providence  our 
provisions  held  out  ; and  on  the  fourth  night  after  we 
sailed,  a violent  shock  shook  the  vessel  from  stem  to  stern, 
and  we  found  ourselves  against  the  quay  of  Antwerp. 

“ When  I reached  my  brother’s  house  I found  him  in 
bed,  sick;  the  doctors  said  it  was  a dropsy.  I don’t  know 
how  that  might  be,  for  he  drank  more  gin  than  any  man  in 
Holland,  and  hated  water  all  his  life.  We  were  twins; 
but  no  one  would  have  thought  so,  I looked  so  thin  and 
meagre  beside  him. 

“Well,  as  I was  there,  I resolved  to  see  the  sights  of  the 
town;  and  the  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  I set  out  by 
myself,  and  wandered  about  till  evening.  Now,  there  were 
many  things  to  see,  — very  strange  things  too.  The  noise 
and  the  din  and  the  bustle  addled  and  confused  me;  the 
people  were  running  here  and  there,  shouting  as  if  they 
were  mad,  and  there  were  great  flags  hanging  out  of  the 
windows,  and  drums  beating;  and,  stranger  than  all,  I saw 
little  soldiers  with  red  breeches  and  red  shoulder-knots, 
running  about  like  monkeys. 

What  is  all  this  ?’  said  I,  to  a man  near  me. 

Methinks,’  said  he,  ‘the  burgomaster  himself  might 
well  know  what  it  is.’ 

“ ‘ I am  not  the  burgomaster, ’ quoth  I ; ‘I  am  his 
brother,  and  only  came  from  Rotterdam  yesterday.’ 

“‘Ah,  then,’  said  another,  with  a strange  grin,  ‘you 
lid  n’t  know  these  preparations  were  meant  to  welcome 
your  arrival  ? 1 


40 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“‘No,’  said  I;  ‘ but  they  are  very  fine,  and  if  there  were 
not  so  much  noise  I should  like  them  well.’ 

“And  so  I sauntered  on  till  I came  to  the  great  Platz, 
opposite  the  cathedral.  That  was  a fine  place;  there  was 
a large  man  carved  in  cheese  over  one  door,  very  wonder- 
ful to  see;  and  there  was  a big  fish,  all  gilt,  where  they 
sold  herrings.  But  iu  the  town-hall  there  seemed  some- 
thing more  than  usual  going  on,  for  great  crowds  were 
there,  and  dragoons  were  galloping  in  and  galloping  out, 
and  all  was  confusion. 

“‘  What ’s  this  ? ’ said  I.  ‘Are  the  dykes  open  ? ’ 

“But  not  one  would  mind  me;  and  then  suddenly  I 
heard  some  one  call  out  my  name. 

“‘Where  is  Van  Hoogendorp?’  said  one;  and  then 
another  cried,  ‘ Where  is  Van  Hoogendorp  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Here  I am,  ’ said  I ; and  at  the  same  moment  two 
officers,  covered  with  gold  lace,  came  through  the  crowd, 
and  took  me  by  the  arms. 

“‘Come  along  with  us,  Monsieur  de  Hoogendorp,’  said 
they,  in  French,  — ‘ there  is  not  a moment  to  lose;  we  have 
been  looking  for  you  everywhere.’ 

“Now,  though  I understand  that  tongue,  I cannot  speak 
it  myself;  so  I only  said  ‘ Ja,  Ja, ’ and  followed  them. 

“They  led  me  up  an  oak  stair,  and  through  three  or 
four  large  rooms  crowded  with  officers  in  fine  uniforms, 
who  all  bowed  as  I passed;  and  some  one  went  before  us, 
calling  out  in  a loud  voice,  ‘ Monsieur  de  Hoogendorp!  ’ 
“‘This  is  too  much  honor,’  said  I,  ‘far  too  much;’ 
but  as  I spoke  in  Dutch,  no  one  minded  me.  Suddenly, 
however,  the  wide  folding-doors  were  flung  open,  and  we 
were  ushered  into  a large  hall,  where,  although  above  a 
hundred  people  were  assembled,  you  might  have  heard 
a pin  drop;  the  few  who  spoke  at  all  did  so  only  in 
whispers. 

“ ‘ Monsieur  de  Hoogendorp ! ’ shouted  the  man  again. 

“‘  For  shame!  ’ said  I;  ‘ don’t  disturb  the  company;  ’ and 
I thought  some  of  them  laughed,  but  he  only  bawled  the 
louder,  ‘ Monsieur  de  Hoogendorp!  ’ 

“‘Let  him  approach,’  said  a quick,  sharp  voice,  from 
the  fireplace. 


MINE  HOST’S  TALE. 


41 


“‘Ah/  thought  I,  ‘ they  are  going  to  read  me  an  address. 
I trust  it  may  be  in  Dutch. ’ 

“ They  led  me  along  in  silence  to  the  fire,  before  which, 
with  his  back  turned  towards  it,  stood  a short  man,  with  a 
sallow,  stern  countenance,  and  a great  broad  forehead,  his 
hair  combed  straight  over  it.  He  wore  a green  coat  with 
white  facings,  and  over  that  a gray  surtout  trimmed  with 
fur.  I am  particular  about  all  this,  because  this  little  man 
was  a person  of  consequence. 

Tou  are  late,  Monsieur  de  Hoogendorp/  said  he,  in 
French;  ‘it  is  half-past  four;’  and  so  saying,  he  pulled 
out  his  watch,  and  held  it  up  before  me. 

Ja/  said  I,  taking  out  my  own,  ‘ we  are  just  the  same 
time.  ’ 

“At  this  he  stamped  upon  the  ground,  and  said  some- 
thing I thought  was  a curse. 

“ ‘ Where  are  the  echevins,  Monsieur  ? ’ said  he. 

“ ‘ God  knows/  said  I;  ‘ most  probably  at  dinner.  ’ 

Ventre  bleu!  — ’ 

Don’t  swear/  said  I.  4 If  I had  you  in  Rotterdam,  I ’d 
fine  you  two  guilders.’ 

“ ‘ What  does  he  say  ? ’ while  his  eyes  flashed  fire.  ‘ Tell 
la  grande  morue  to  speak  French.’ 

“ ‘ Tell  him  I am  not  a cod-fish,  ’ said  I. 

“ ‘ Who  speaks  Dutch  here  ? ’ said  he.  ‘ General  de 
Ritter,  ask  him  where  are  the  echevins , or  is  the  man  a 
fool?  ’ 

“ ‘ I have  heard,  ’ said  the  General,  bowing  obsequiously, 
— ‘ I have  heard,  your  Majesty,  that  he  is  little  better.’ 
Tonnerre  de  Dieu!  ’ said  he;  ‘ and  this  is  their  chief 
magistrate!  Marat,  you  must  look  to  this  to-morrow. 
And  as  it  grows  late  now,  let  us  see  the  citadel  at  once; 
he  can  show  us  the  way  thither,  I suppose;  ’ and  with  this 
he  moved  forward,  followed  by  the  rest,  among  whom  I 
found  myself  hurried  along,  no  one  any  longer  paying  me 
the  slightest  respect  or  attention. 

“ ‘ To  the  citadel ! ’ said  one. 

“ ‘ To  the  citadel ! ’ cried  another. 

“ ‘ Come,  Hoogendorp,  lead  the  way ! ’ cried  several 
together;  and  so  they  pushed  me  to  the  front,  and  not- 
withstanding all  I said  that  I did  not  know  the  citadel 


42 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


from  the  Dome  Church,  they  would  listen  to  nothing,  but 
only  called  the  louder,  ‘ Step  out,  old  Grande  culotte  ! ’ and 
hurried  me  down  the  street  at  the  pace  of  a boar-hunt. 

“‘  Lead  on!  ’ cried  one.  ‘ To  the  front!  ’ said  another. 
‘Step  out!’  roared  three  or  four  together;  and  I found 
myself  at  the  head  of  the  procession,  without  the  power  to 
explain  or  confess  my  ignorance. 

‘“As  sure  as  my  name  is  Peter  van  Hoogendorp,  I’ll 
give  you  all  a devil’s  dance,’  said  I to  myself;  and  with 
that  I grasped  my  staff,  and  set  out  as  fast  as  I was  able. 
Down  one  narrow  street  we  went,  and  up  another;  some- 
times we  got  into  a cul-de-sac , where  there  was  no  exit, 
and  had  to  turn  back  again ; another  time  we  would  ascend 
a huge  flight  of  steps,  and  come  plump  into  a tanner’s  yard, 
or  a place  where  they  were  curing  flsh.  And  so  we  blun- 
dered on,  till  there  wasn’t  a blind  alley  or  crooked  lane  of 
Antwerp  that  we  did  n’t  wade  through,  and  I was  becom- 
ing foot-sore  and  tired,  myself,  with  the  exertion. 

“All  this  time  the  Emperor  — for  it  was  Napoleon  — 
took  no  note  of  where  we  were  going;  he  was  too  busy 
conversing  with  old  General  de  Ritter  to  mind  anything 
else.  At  last,  after  traversing  a long  narrow  street,  we 
came  down  upon  an  arm  of  the  Scheldt;  and  so  overcome 
was  I then  that  I resolved  I would  go  no  farther  without  a 
smoke,  and  I sat  myself  down  on  a butter  firkin,  and  took 
out  my  pipe,  and  proceeded  to  strike  a light  with  my  flint. 
A titter  of  laughter  from  the  officers  now  attracted  the 
Emperor’s  attention,  and  he  stopped  short,  and  stared  at 
me  as  if  I had  been  some  wonderful  beast. 

“ ‘ What  is  this  ? ’ said  he.  ‘ Why  don’t  you  move 
forward  ? ’ 

‘“it’s  impossible,’  replied  I;  ‘I  never  walked  so  far 
since  I was  born.’ 

“‘  Where  is  the  citadel  ?’  cried  he  in  a passion. 

“‘In  the  devil’s  keeping,’  said  I,  ‘or  we  should  have 
seen  it  long  ago.’ 

“‘  That  must  be  it  yonder,’  said  an  aide-de-camp,  point- 
ing to  a green,  grassy  eminence  at  the  other  side  of  the 
Scheldt. 

“The  Emperor  took  the  telescope  from  his  hand,  and 
looked  through  it  steadily  for  a couple  of  minutes. 


MINE  HOST’S  TALE. 


43 


“‘  Yes,’  said  he,  1 that’s  it;  hut  why  have  we  come  all 
this  round  ? The  road  lay  yonder.’ 

“‘  Ja,’  said  I,  ‘ so  it  did.’ 

“‘Ventre  bleu!’  roared  he,  while  he  stamped  his  foot 
upon  the  ground,  ‘ Le  gaillard  se  moque  de  nous ! ’ 

Ja,’  said  I again,  without  well  knowing  why. 

“ ‘ The  citadel  is  there ! It  is  yonder ! ’ cried  he,  point- 
ing with  his  finger. 

Ja,’  said  I,  once  more. 

“ ‘ En  avant ! then,  ’ shouted  he,  as  he  motioned  me  to 
descend  the  flight  of  steps  which  led  down  to  the  Scheldt; 
‘ if  this  be  the  road  you  take,  par  Saint  Denis!  you  shall 
go  first.’ 

“Now  the  frost,  as  I have  said,  had  only  set  in  a few 
days  before,  and  the  ice  on  the  Scheldt  would  scarcely  have 
borne  the  weight  of  a drummer-boy;  so  I remonstrated  at 
once,  — at  first  in  Dutch,  and  then  in  French,  as  well  as  I 
was  able,  — but  nobody  minded  me.  I then  endeavored 
to  show  the  danger  his  Majesty  himself  would  incur;  but 
they  only  laughed  at  this,  and  cried,  — 

“‘  En  avant,  en  avant  toujours,  ’ and  before  I had  time 
for  another  word,  there  was  a corporal’s  guard  behind  me 
with  fixed  bayonets;  the  word  ‘ march  ’ was  given,  and  out 
I stepped. 

“I  tried  to  say  a prayer,  but  I could  think  of  nothing 
but  curses  upon  the  fiends,  whose  shouts  of  laughter  behind 
put  all  my  piety  to  flight.  When  I came  to  the  bottom 
step  I turned  round,  and,  putting  my  hand  to  my  sides, 
endeavored  by  signs  to  move  their  pity;  but  they  only 
screamed  the  louder  at  this,  and  at  a signal  from  an  officer 
a fellow  touched  me  with  a bayonet. 

“That  was  an  awful  moment,”  said  old  Hoogendorp, 
stopping  short  in  his  narrative,  and  seizing  the  can,  which 
for  half  an  hour  he  had  not  tasted.  “I  think  I see  the 
river  before  me  still,  with  its  flakes  of  ice,  some  thick  and 
somethin,  riding  on  one  another;  some  whirling  along  in  the 
rapid  current  of  the  stream;  some  lying  like  islands  where 
the  water  was  sluggish.  I turned  round,  and  I clenched  my 
fist,  and  I shook  it  in  the  Emperor’s  face,  and  I swore  by 
the  bones  of  the  Stadtholder  that  if  I had  but  one  grasp  of 


44 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


his  hand,  I ’d  not  perform  that  dance  without  a partner. 
Here  I stood,”  cpioth  he,  “and  the  Scheldt  might  be,  as  it 
were,  there.  I lifted  my  foot  thus,  and  came  down  upon  a 
large  piece  of  floating  ice,  which  the  moment  1 touched  it 
slipped  away,  and  shot  out  into  the  stream.” 

At  this  moment  Mynheer,  who  had  been  dramatizing  this 
portion  of  his  adventure,  came  down  upon  the  waxed  floor 
with  a plump  that  shook  the  pagoda  to  its  centre;  while  I, 
who  had  during  the  narrative  been  working  double  tides  at 
the  schiedam,  was  so  interested  at  the  catastrophe  that  I 
thought  he  was  really  in  the  Scheldt,  in  the  situation  he 
was  describing.  The  instincts  of  humanity  were,  I am 
proud  to  say,  stronger  in  me  than  those  of  reason.  I 
kicked  off  my  shoes,  threw  away  my  coat,  and  plunged 
boldly  after  him.  I remember  well  catching  him  by  the 
throat,  and  I remember,  too,  feeling  what  a dreadful  thing 
was  the  grip  of  a drowning  man;  for  both  his  hands  were  on 
my  neck,  and  he  squeezed  me  fearfully.  Of  what  hap- 
pened after,  the  waiters  or  the  Humane  Society  may  know 
something.  I only  can  tell  that  I kept  my  bed  for  four 
days;  and  when  I next  descended  to  the  table  d’hote,  I saw 
a large  patch  of  black  sticking-plaster  across  the  bridge  of 
old  Hoogendorp’s  nose,  and  I never  was  a guest  in  Lust 
und  Rust  afterwards. 

The  loud  clanking  of  the  table  d’hote  bell  aroused  me,  as 
I lay  dreaming  of  Frank  Holbein  and  the  yellow  doublet. 
I dressed  hastily,  and  descended  to  the  saal.  Everything 
was  exactly  as  I left  it  ten  years  before,  even  to  the  cherry- 
wood  pipe-stick  that  projected  from  Mynheer’s  breeches- 
pocket;  nothing  was  changed.  The  clatter  of  post-horses 
and  the  heavy  rattle  of  wheels  drew  me  to  the  window  in 
time  to  see  the  alderman’s  carriage,  with  four  posters,  roll 
past;  a kiss  of  the  hand  was  thrown  me  from  the  rumble. 
It  was  the  Honorable  Jack  himself,  who  somehow  had 
won  their  favor,  and  was  already  installed  their  travelling 
companion. 

“It  is  odd  enough,”  thought  I,  as  I arranged  my 
napkin  across  my  knee,  “what  success  lies  in  a well- 
curled  whisker,  particularly  if  the  wearer  be  a fool.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 


MEMS.  AND  MORALIZINGS. 

He  who  expects  to  find  these  “ Loiterings  ” of  mine  of 
any  service  as  a guide-book  to  the  Continent,  or  a voy- 
ager’s manual,  will  be  sorely  disappointed.  As  well  might 
he  endeavor  to  devise  a suit  of  clothes  from  the  patches 
of  cloth  scattered  about  a tailor’s  shop;  there  might  be, 
indeed,  wherewithal  to  repair  an  old  garment  or  make  a 
penwiper,  but  no  more.  My  fragments,  too,  of  every  shape 
and  color  — sometimes  showy  and  flaunting,  sometimes  a 
piece  of  hodden-gray  or  linsey-woolsey  — are  all  I have  to 
present  to  my  friends.  Whatever  they  be  in  shade  or  tex- 
ture, whether  fine  or  homespun,  rich  in  Tyrian  dye  or 
stained  with  russet  brown,  I can  only  say  for  them,  they 
are  all  my  own,  — I have  never  “cabbaged  from  any  man’s 
cloth.” 

And  now,  to  abjure  decimals  and  talk  like  a unit  of 
humanity,  if  you  would  know  the  exact  distance  between 
any  two  towns  abroad,  the  best  mode  of  reaching  your  des- 
tination, the  most  comfortable  hotel  to  stop  at  when  you 
have  got  there,  who  built  the  cathedral,  who  painted  the 
altar-piece,  who  demolished  the  town  in  the  year  fifteen 
hundred  and  — fiddlestick, — then  take  into  your  confi- 
dence the  immortal  John  Murray;  he  can  tell  you  all  these, 
and  much  more;  how  many  kreutzers  make  a groschen,  how 
many  groschen  make  a gulden,  reconciling  you  to  all  the 
difficulties  of  travel  by  historic  associations,  memoirs  of 
people  who  lived  before  the  flood,  and  learned  dissertations 
on  the  etymology  of  the  name  of  the  town,  which  all  your 
ingenuity  can’t  teach  you  how  to  pronounce. 

Well,  it ’s  a fine  thing,  to  be  sure,  when  your  carriage 
breaks  down  in  a chaussee  with  holes  large  enough  to  bury 
a dog,  it ’s  a great  satisfaction  to  know  that  some  ten 
thousand  years  previous,  this  place,  that  seems  for  all  the 


46 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


world  like  a mountain  torrent,  was  a Roman  way.  If  the 
inn  you  sleep  in  be  infested  with  every  annoyance  to 
which  inns  are  liable,  — all  that  long  catalogue  of  evils, 
from  boors  to  bugs,  — never  mind,  there ’s  sure  to  be  some 
delightful  story  of  a bloody  murder  connected  with  its 
annals,  which  will  amply  repay  you  for  all  your  suffering. 

And  now,  in  sober  seriousness,  what  literary  fame  equals 
John  Murray’s  ? What  portmanteau,  with  two  shirts 
and  a nightcap,  has  n’t  got  one  Handbook  ? What  Eng- 
lishman issues  forth  at  morn  without  one  beneath  his 
arm  ? How  naturally  does  he  compare  the  voluble  state- 
ment of  'liis  valet-de-place  with  the  testimony  of  the  book. 
Does  he  not  carry  it  with  him  to  church,  where,  if  the 
sermon  be  slow,  he  can  read  a description  of  the  build- 
ing ? Is  it  not  his  guide  at  table  d'hote,  teaching  him 
when  to  eat,  and  where  to  abstain  ? Does  he  look  upon  a 
building,  a statue,  a picture,  an  old  cabinet,  or  a manu- 
script, with  whose  eyes  does  he  see  it  ? With  John 
Murray’s,  to  be  sure!  Let  John  tell  him  this  town  is 
famous  for  its  mushrooms,  why,  he  ’ll  eat  them  till  he 
becomes  half  a fungus  himself;  let  him  hear  that  it  is 
celebrated  for  its  lace  manufactory  or  its  iron  work,  its 
painting  on  glass  or  its  wigs,  straightway  he  buys  up  all 
he  can  find,  only  to  discover,  on  reaching  home,  that  a 
London  shopkeeper  can  undersell  him  in  the  same  articles 
by  about  fifty  per  cent. 

In  all  this,  however,  John  Murray  is  not  to  blame;  on 
the  contrary,  it  only  shows  his  headlong  popularity,  and 
the  implicit  trust  with  which  is  received  every  statement 
he  makes.  I cannot  conceive  anything  more  frightful 
than  the  sudden  appearance  of  a work  which  should  con- 
tradict everything  in  the  Handbook,  and  convince  English 
people  that  John  Murray  was  wrong.  National  bank- 
ruptcy, a defeat  at  sea,  the  loss  of  the  colonies,  might 
all  be  borne  up  against;  but  if  we  awoke  one  morning  to 
hear  that  the  “Continent”  was  no  longer  the  Continent 
we  have  been  accustomed  to  believe  it,  what  a terrific 
shock  it  would  prove.  Like  the  worthy  alderman  of 
London,  who,  hearing  that  Robinson  Crusoe  was  only  a 
fiction,  confessed  he  had  lost  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures 


MEMS.  ANI)  MORALIZINGS. 


47 


of  his  existence;  so,  should  we  discover  that  we  have  been 
robbed  of  an  innocent  and  delightful  illusion,  for  which  no 
reality  of  cheating  waiters  and  cursing  Frenchmen  would 
ever  repay  us. 

Of  the  implicit  faith  with  which  John  and  his  “Manual  ” 
are  received,  1 remember  well,  witnessing  a pleasant  in- 
stance a few  years  back  on  the  Rhine. 

On  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  amid  that  strange  com- 
mingled mass  of  Cockneys  and  Dutchmen,  Flemish  boors, 
German  barons,  bankers  and  blacklegs,  money-changers, 
cheese-mongers,  quacks,  and  consuls,  sat  an  elderly  couple, 
who,  as  far  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  company  as  circum- 
stances would  admit,  were  industriously  occupied  in  com- 
paring the  Continent  with  the  Handbook,  or,  in  other 
words,  were  endeavoring  to  see  if  Nature  had  dared  to 
dissent  from  the  true  type  they  held  in  their  hands. 

“‘Andernach,  formerly  Andernachium, ’ ” read  the  old 
lady,  aloud.  “ Do  you  see  it,  my  dear  ? ” 

“Yes,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  jumping  up  on  the  bench 
and  adjusting  his  pocket  telescope:  “yes,”  said  he,  “go 
on.  I have  it.” 

“ ‘Andernach,  ’ ” resumed  she,  “‘is  an  ancient  Roman 
town,  and  has  twelve  towers  — ’ ” 

“How  many  did  you  say  ?” 

“ Twelve,  my  dear  — ” 

“Wait  a bit,  wait  a bit,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  while, 
with  outstretched  finger,  he  began  to  count  them,  — one,  two, 
three,  four,  and  so  on  till  he  reached  eleven,  when  he  came 
to  a dead  stop;  and  then,  dropping  his  voice  to  a tone  of 
tremulous  anxiety,  he  whispered,  “There ’s  one  a-missing.” 

“You  don’t  say  so!”  said  the  lady;  “dearee  me!  try  it 
again.” 

The  old  gentleman  shook  his  head,  frowned  ominously, 
and  recommenced  the  score. 

“You  missed  the  little  one  near  the  lime-kiln,”  inter- 
rupted the  lady. 

“No!”  said  he,  abruptly,  “that’s  six,  there’s  seven  — 
eight  — nine  — ten  — eleven,  — and  see,  not  another.” 

Upon  this,  the  old  lady  mounted  beside  him,  and  the 
enumeration  began  in  duet  fashion;  but  try  it  how  they 


48 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


would,  let  them  take  them  up  hill,  or  down  hill,  along 
the  Rhine  hrst,  or  commence  inland,  it  was  no  use, — they 
could  not  make  the  dozen  of  them. 

“ It  is  shameful ! ” said  the  gentleman. 

“Very  disgraceful,  indeed!”  echoed  the  lady,  as  she 
closed  the  book,  and  crossed  her  hands  before  her;  while 
her  partner’s  indignation  took  a warmer  turn,  and  he  paced 
the  deck  in  a state  of  violent  agitation. 

It  was  clear  that  no  idea  of  questioning  John  Murray’s 
accuracy  had  ever  crossed  their  minds;  far  from  it.  The 
Handbook  had  told  them  honestly  what  they  were  to 
have  at  Andernach:  “twelve  towers  built  by  the  Romans” 
was  part  of  the  bill  of  fare;  and  some  rascally  Duke  of 
Hesse  something  had  evidently  absconded  with  a stray 
castle.  They  were  cheated,  “bamboozled,  and  bit,”  in- 
veigled out  of  their  mother-country  under  false  pretences, 
and  they  “wouldn’t  stand  it  for  no  one;”  and  so  they 
went  about  complaining  to  every  passenger,  and  endeav- 
oring, with  all  their  eloquence,  to  make  a national  thing 
of  it,  and  determined  to  represent  the  case  to  the  minis- 
ter the  moment  they  reached  Frankfort.  And  now,  as  the 
a propos  reminds  me,  what  a devil  of  a life  an  English  min- 
ister has  in  any  part  of  the  Continent  frequented  by  his 
countrymen. 

Let  John  Bull,  from  his  ignorance  of  the  country  or  its 
language,  involve  himself  in  a scrape  with  the  authorities, 
let  him  lose  his  passport  or  his  purse,  let  him  forget 
his  penknife  or  his  portmanteau;  straightway  he  repairs 
to  the  ambassador,  who,  in  his  eyes,  is  a cross  between 
Lord  Aberdeen  and  a Bow-street  officer.  The  minister’s 
functions  are  indeed  multifarious,  — now  investigating  the 
advantages  of  an  international  treaty;  now  detecting  the 
whereabouts  of  a missing  cotton  umbrella;  now  assigning 
the  limits  of  a territory;  now  giving  instructions  on  the 
ceremony  of  presentation  to  court;  now  estimating  the 
fiscal  relations  of  the  navigation  of  a river;  now  apprais- 
ing the  price  of  the  bridge  of  a waiter’s  nose.  As  these 
pleasant  and  harmless  pursuits,  so  popular  in  London,  of 
breaking  lamps,  wrenching  off  knockers,  and  thrashing  the 
police,  when  practised  abroad  require  explanation  at  the 


MEMS.  AND  MORALIZINGS. 


49 


hands  of  the  minister,  he  hesitates  not  to  account  for 
them  as  national  predilections,  like  the  taste  for  strong  ale 
and  underdone  beef. 

He  is  a proud  man,  indeed,  who  puts  his  foot  upon  the' 
Continent  with  that  Aladdin’s  lamp,  — a letter  to  the  am- 
bassador. The  credit  of  his  banker  is  in  his  eyes  very 
inferior  to  that  all-powerful  document,  which  opens  to  his 
excited  imagination  the  salons  of  royalty,  the  dinner-table 
of  the  embassy,  a private  box  at  the  opera,  and  the  atten- 
tions of  the  whole  fashionable  world;  and  he  revels  in 
the  expectation  of  crosses,  cordons,  stars,  and  decorations, 
private  interviews  with  royalty,  ministerial  audiences,  and 
all  the  thousand  and  one  flatteries  which  are  heaped  upon 
the  highest  of  the  land.  If  he  is  single,  he  doesn’t  know 
but  he  may  marry  a princess;  if  he  be  married,  he  may 
have  a daughter  for  some  German  archduke,  — with  three 
hussars  for  an  army,  and  three  acres  of  barren  mountain 
for  a territory, — whose  subjects  are  not  so  numerous  as 
the  hairs  of  his  mustache,  but  whose  quarterings  go  back 
to  Noah,  and  an  ark  on  a “ field  azure  ” figures  in  his 
escutcheon. 

Well,  well!  of  all  the  expectations  of  mankind  these  are 
about  the  vainest.  These  foreign-office  documents  are  but 
Bellerophon  letters, — born  to  betray.  Let  not  their  pos- 
session dissuade  you  from  making  a weekly  score  with  your 
hotel-keeper,  under  the  pleasant  delusion  that  you  are  to 
dine  out  four  days  out  of  the  seven.  Alas  and  alack!  the 
ambassador  doesn’t  keep  open  house  for  his  rapparee  coun- 
trymen ; his  hotel  is  no  shelter  for  females  destitute  of  any 
correct  idea  as  to  where  they  are  going,  and  why;  and  how- 
ever strange  it  may  seem,  he  actually  seems  to  think  his 
dwelling  as  much  his  own  as  though  it  stood  in  Belgrave 
Square  or  Piccadilly. 

Now,  John  Bull  has  no  notion  of  this;  he  pays  for 
these  people;  they  figure  in  the  “Budget,”  and  for  a good 
round  sum,  too;  and  what  do  they  do  for  it  ? John  knows 
little  of  the  daily  work  of  diplomacy.  A treaty,  a tariff, 
a question  of  war,  he  can  understand ; but  the  red-tapery 
of  office  he  can  make  nothing  of.  Court  gossip;  royal 
marriages;  how  his  Majesty  smiled  at  the  French  envoy, 

4 


50 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


and  only  grinned  at  the  Austrian  charge,  d’affaires  ; how 
the  queen  spoke  three  minutes  to  the  Danish  minister’s 
wife,  and  only  said  “ Bonjour,  madame,”  to  the  Neapoli- 
tan’s; how  plum-pudding  figured  at  the  royal  table,  thus 
showing  that  English  policy  was  in  the  ascendant, — all 
these  signs  of  the  times  are  a Chaldee  manuscript  to  him. 
But  that  the  ambassador  should  invite  him  and  Mrs.  Simp- 
kins, and  the  three  Misses  and  Master  Gregory  Simpkins, 
to  take  a bit  of  dinner  in  the  family  way;  should  bully 
the  landlord  at  the  Aigle,  and  make  a hard  bargain  with 
the  lohn-kutscher  for  him  at  the  Schwan;  should  take  care 
that  he  saw  the  sights,  and  was  n’t  more  laughed  at  than 
was  absolutely  necessary, — all  that  is  comprehensible,  and 
John  expects  it  as  naturally  as  though  it  was  set  forth  in 
his  passport,  and  sworn  to  by  the  foreign  secretary  before 
he  left  London. 

Of  all  the  strange  anomalies  of  English  character,  I 
don’t  know  one  so  thoroughly  inexplicable  as  the  mystery 
by  which  so  really  independent  a fellow  as  John  Bull 
ought  to  be,  — and  as  he,  in  nineteen  cases  out  of  twenty, 
is, — should  be  a tuft-hunter.  The  man  who  would  scorn 
any  pecuniary  obligation,  who  would  travel  a hundred 
miles  back  on  his  journey  to  acquit  a forgotten  debt, 
who  has  not  a thought  that  is  not  high-souled,  lofty,  and 
honorable,  will  stoop  to  anything  to  be  where  he  has  no 
pretension  to  be,  — to  figure  in  a society  where  he  is  any- 
thing but  at  his  ease,  unnoticed  save  by  ridicule.  Any 
one  who  has  much  experience  of  the  Continent  must  have 
been  struck  by  this.  There  is  no  trouble  too  great,  no 
expense  too  lavish,  no  intrigue  too  difficult,  to  obtain  an 
invitation  to  court  or  an  embassy  soiree. 

These  embassy  soirees,  too,  are  good  things  in  their  way, 
a kind  of  terrestrial  inferno,  where  all  ranks  and  condi- 
tions of  men  enter, — stately  Prussians,  wily  Frenchmen, 
roguish-looking  Austrians,  stupid  Danes,  haughty  English, 
swarthy,  mean-looking  Spaniards,  and  here  and  there  some 
“eternal  swaggerer”  from  the  States,  with  his  hair  en 
Kentuck,  and  “a  very  pretty  considerable  damned  loud 
smell”  of  tobacco  about  him.  Then  there  are  the  grandes 
dames,  glittering  in  diamonds,  and  sitting  in  divan,  and 


MEMS.  AND  MORALIZINGS. 


51 


the  ministers’  ladies  of  every  gradation,  from  plenipos’ 
wives  to  charges  d'affaires,  with  their  cordons  of  whiskered 
attaches  about  them,  maids  of  honor,  aides-de-camp  da 
roi,  Poles,  savants,  newspaper  editors,  and  a Turk.  Every 
rank  has  its  place  in  the  attention  of  the  host;  and  he 
poises  his  civilities  as  though  a ray  the  more,  one  shade 
the  less,  would  upset  the  balance  of  nations,  and  com- 
promise the  peace  of  Europe.  In  that  respect,  nothing 
ever  surpassed  the  old  Dutch  embassy  at  Dresden,  where 
the  matt  re  d' hotel  had  strict  orders  to  serve  coffee  to  the 
ministers,  eau  sucrke  to  the  secretaries,  and  nothing  to 
the  attaches.  No  plea  of  heat,  fatigue,  or  exhaustion  was 
ever  suffered  to  infringe  a rule  founded  on  the  broadest 
views  of  diplomatic  rank.  A cup  of  coffee  thus  became, 
like  a cordon  or  a star,  an  honorable  and  a proud  distinc- 
tion; and  the  enviable  possessor  sipped  his  Mocha,  and 
coquetted  with  the  spoon,  with  a sense  of  dignity  ordinary 
men  know  nothing  of  in  such  circumstances;  while  the 
secretary’s  eau  sucree  became  a goal  to  the  young  aspirant 
in  the  career,  which  must  have  stirred  his  early  ambition, 
and  stimulated  his  ardor  for  success. 

If,  as  some  folk  say,  human  intellect  is  never  more 
conspicuous  than  where  a high  order  of  mind  can  descend 
to  some  paltry,  insignificant  circumstance,  and  bring  to  its 
consideration  all  the  force  it  possesses,  certes  diplomatic 
people  must  be  of  a no  mean  order  of  capacity. 

From  the  question  of  a disputed  frontier  to  that  of  a 
place  at  dinner  — there  is  but  one  spring  from  the  course 
of  a river  towards  the  sea  — and  a procession  to  table,  the 
practised  mind  bounds  as  naturally  as  though  it  were  a 
hop  and  a step.  A case  in  point  occurred  some  short  time 
since  at  Frankfort. 

The  etiquette  in  this  city  gives  the  president  of  the  diet 
precedence  of  the  different  members  of  the  corps  diplo- 
matique, who,  however,  all  take  rank  before  the  rest  of 
the  diet. 

The  Austrian  minister,  who  occupied  the  post  of  presi- 
dent, being  absent,  the  Prussian  envoy  held  the  office  ad 
interim,  and  believed  that,  with  the  duties,  its  privileges 
became  his. 


52 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


M.  Anstett,  the  Russian  envoy,  having  invited  his  col- 
leagues to  dinner,  the  grave  question  arose  who  was  to  go 
first.  On  one  hand  the  dowager  was  the  Minister  of  France, 
who  always  preceded  the  others ; on  the  other  was  the  Prus- 
sian, a pro-tempore  president,  who  showed  no  disposition 
to  concede  his  pretensions. 

The  important  moment  arrived;  the  door  was  flung 
wide,  and  an  imposing  voice  proclaimed:  “Madame  la 
Baronne  est  servie.”  Scarce  were  the  words  spoken,  when 
the  Prussian  sprang  forward,  and  offering  his  arm  gal- 
lantly to  Madame  d’ Anstett,  led  the  way  before  the 
Frenchman  had  time  to  look  around  him. 

When  the  party  were  seated  at  table,  M.  d’ Anstett 
looked  about  him  in  a state  of  embarrassment  and  uneasi- 
ness; then,  suddenly  rallying,  he  called  out  in  a voice 
audible  throughout  the  whole  room : “ Serve  the  soup  to 
the  Minister  of  France  first!  ” The  order  was  obeyed,  and 
the  French  minister  had  lifted  his  third  spoonful  to  his 
lips  before  the  humbled  Prussian  had  tasted  his. 

The  next  day  saw  couriers  flying,  extra  post  through  all 
Europe,  conveying  the  important  intelligence  that  when 
all  other  precedence  failed,  soup  might  be  resorted  to,  to 
test  rank  and  supremacy. 

And  now  enough  for  the  present  of  ministers  ordinary 
and  extraordinary,  envoys  and  plenipos;  though  I intend 
to  come  back  to  them  at  another  opportunity. 


CHAPTER  V. 


STRANGE  CHARACTERS. 

It  was  through  no  veneration  for  the  memory  of  Van 
Hoogendorp’s  adventure  that  I found  myself  one  morning 
at  Antwerp.  I like  the  old  town.  I like  its  quaint,  irreg- 
ular streets,  its  glorious  cathedral,  the  old  Place,  with  its 
alleys  of  trees;  I like  the  Flemish  women,  and  their  long- 
eared caps;  and  I like  the  table  d’hote  at  the  St.  Antoine, 
— among  other  reasons,  because,  being  at  one  o’clock,  it 
affords  a capital  argument  for  a hot  supper  at  nine. 

I do  not  know  how  other  people  may  feel,  but  to  me,  I 
must  confess,  much  of  the  pleasure  the  Continent  affords 
me,  is  destroyed  by  the  jargon  of  the  commissionnaires,  and 
the  cant  of  guide-books.  Why  is  not  a man  permitted  to 
sit  down  before  that  great  picture,  The  Descent  from  the 
Cross,  and  “ gaze  his  fill  ” on  it  ? Why  may  he  not  look  till 
the  whole  scene  is,  as  it  were,  acted  before  him,  and  all 
those  faces  of  grief,  of  care,  of  horror,  and  of  despair  are 
graven  in  his  memory,  never  to  be  erased  again  ? Why,  I 
say,  may  he  not  study  this  in  tranquillity  and  peace,  with- 
out some  coarse,  tobacco-reeking  fellow  at  his  elbow,  in  a 
dirty  blouse  and  wooden  shoes,  explaining  in  patois  French 
the  merits  of  a work  which  he  is  as  well  fitted  to  paint 
as  to  appreciate  ? 

But  I must  not  myself  commit  the  very  error  I am 
reprobating.  I will  not  attempt  any  description  of  a 
picture  which  to  those  who  have  seen  it  could  realize  not 
one  of  the  impressions  the  work  itself  afforded,  and  to 
those  who  have  not  would  convey  nothing  at  all.  I will 
not  bore  my  reader  with  the  tiresome  cant  of  “effect,” 
“expression,”  “force,”  “depth,”  and  “relief,”  but  instead 
of  all  this  will  tell  him  a short  story  about  the  paint- 
ing, which  if  it  has  no  other  merit  has  at  least  that  of 
authenticity. 


54 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Rubens  — who,  among  liis  other  tastes,  was  a great 
florist  — was  very  desirous  to  enlarge  his  garden  by  adding 
to  it  a patch  of  ground  adjoining.  It  chanced,  unfortu- 
nately, that  this  piece  of  land  did  not  belong  to  an  indi- 
vidual who  could  be  tempted  by  a large  price,  but  to  a 
society  or  club  called  the  “ Arquebussiers, ” one  of  those 
old  Flemish  guilds  which  date  their  origin  several  cen- 
turies back.  Insensible  to  every  temptation  of  money, 
they  resisted  all  the  painter’s  offers,  and  at  length  only 
consented  to  relinquish  the  land  on  condition  that  he 
would  paint  a picture  for  them  representing  their  patron 
saint,  Saint  Christopher.  To  this  Rubens  readily  acceded, 
his  only  difficulty  being  to  find  out  some  incident  in  the 
good  saint’s  life  which  might  serve  as  a subject.  What 
Saint  Christopher  had  to  do  with  cross-bows  or  sharp- 
shooters no  one  could  tell  him;  and  for  many  a long  day 
he  puzzled  his  mind,  without  ever  being  able  to  hit  upon  a 
solution  of  the  difficulty.  At  last,  in  despair,  the  etymol- 
ogy of  the  word  suggested  a plan;  and  “ Christopheros,” 
or  cross-bearer,  afforded  the  hint  on  which  he  began  his 
great  picture  of  The  Descent.  For  months  long  he  worked 
industriously  at  the  painting,  taking  an  interest  in  its 
details  such  as  he  confesses  never  to  have  felt  in  any  of 
his  previous  works.  He  knew  it  to  be  his  chef -cl’ oeuvre, 
and  looked  forward,  with  a natural  eagerness,  to  the 
moment  when  he  should  display  it  before  its  future  pos- 
sessors, and  receive  their  congratulations  on  his  success. 

The  day  came;  the  Arquebuss  men  assembled,  and  re- 
paired in  a body  to  Rubens’s  house.  The  large  folding- 
shutters  which  concealed  the  painting  were  opened,  and 
the  triumph  of  the  painter’s  genius  was  displayed  before 
them.  But  not  a word  was  spoken;  no  exclamation  of 
admiration  or  wonder  broke  from  the  assembled  throng; 
not  a murmur  of  pleasure,  or  even  surprise,  was  there. 
On  the  contrary,  the  artist  beheld  nothing  but  faces 
expressive  of  disappointment  and  dissatisfaction;  and  at 
length,  after  a considerable  pause,  one  question  burst 
from  every  lip,  “Where  is  Saint  Christopher?” 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  he  explained  the  object  of 
his  work.  In  vain  he  assured  them  that  the  picture  was 


STRANGE  CHARACTERS. 


55 


the  greatest  he  had  ever  painted,  and  far  superior  to  what 
he  had  contracted  to  give  them.  They  stood  obdurate  and 
motionless.  It  was  Saint  Christopher  they  wished  for;  it 
was  for  him  they  bargained,  and  him  they  would  have. 

The  altercation  continued  long  and  earnest.  Some  of 
them,  more  moderate,  hoping  to  conciliate  both  parties, 
suggested  that  as  there  was  a small  space  unemployed  in 
the  left  of  the  painting,  Saint  Christopher  could  be  intro- 
duced there,  by  making  him  somewhat  diminutive.  Ru- 
bens rejected  the  proposal  with  disgust,  — his  great  work 
was  not  to  be  destroyed  by  such  an  anomaly  as  this;  and 
so,  breaking  off  the  negotiation  at  once,  he  dismissed  the 
Arquebuss  men,  and  relinquished  all  pretension  to  the 
“promised  land.” 

Matters  remained  for  some  months  thus,  when  the  bur- 
gomaster, who  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  Rubens’s  genius, 
happened  to  hear  of  the  entire  transaction,  and  waiting  on 
the  painter,  suggested  an  expedient  by  which  every  diffi- 
culty might  be  avoided,  and  both  parties  rest  content. 
“Why  not,”  said  he,  “make  a Saint  Christopher  on  the 
outside  of  the  shutter  ? You  have  surely  space  enough 
there,  and  can  make  him  of  any  size  you  like.”  The  artist 
caught  at  the  proposal,  seized  his  chalk,  and  in  a few  min- 
utes sketched  out  a gigantic  saint,  which  the  burgomaster 
at  once  pronounced  suited  to  the  occasion. 

The  Arquebuss  men  were  again  introduced,  and,  imme- 
diately on  beholding  their  patron,  professed  themselves 
perfectly  satisfied.  The  bargain  was  concluded,  the  land 
ceded,  and  the  picture  hung  up  in  the  great  cathedral 
of  Antwerp,  — where,  with  the  exception  of  the  short 
period  that  French  spoliation  carried  it  to  the  Louvre, 
it  has  remained  ever  since,  a monument  of  the  artist’s 
genius,  the  greatest  and  most  finished  of  all  his  works. 

And  now  that  I have  done  my  story,  I ’ll  try  and  find 
out  that  little  quaint  hotel  they  call  the  Fischer’s  Haus. 

Fifteen  years  ago,  I remember  losing  my  way  one  night 
in  the  streets  of  Antwerp.  I could  n’t  speak  a word  of 
Flemish;  the  few  people  I met  could  n’t  understand  a word 
of  French.  I wandered  about  for  full  two  hours,  and  heard 
the  old  cathedral  clock  play  a psalm-tune,  and  the  St. 


56 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Joseph  tried  its  hand  on  another.  A watchman  cried  the 
hour  through  a cow’s  horn,  and  set  all  the  dogs  a-barking; 
and  then  all  was  still  again,  and  I plodded  along,  without 
the  faintest  idea  of  the  points  of  the  compass. 

In  this  moody  frame  of  mind  I was,  when  the  heavy 
clank  of  a pair  of  sabots  behind  apprised  me  that  some  one 
was  following.  I turned  sharply  about,  and  accosted  him 
in  French. 

“English  ?”  said  he,  in  a thick,  guttural  tone. 

“Yes,  thank  Heaven,”  said  I;  “do  you  speak  English  ?” 
“ Ja,  Mynheer,”  answered  he. 

Though  this  reply  didn’t  promise  very  favorably,  I 
immediately  asked  him  to  guide  me  to  my  hotel,  upon 
which  he  shook  his  head  gravely,  and  said  nothing. 

“Don’t  you  speak  English  ?”  said  I. 

“ Ja,”  said  he  once  more. 

“I  ’ve  lost  my  way,”  cried  I;  “I  am  a stranger.” 

He  looked  at  me  doggedly  for  a minute  or  two,  and  then 
with  a stern  gravity  of  manner,  and  a phlegm  I cannot 
attempt  to  convey,  he  said,  — 

“Damn  my  eyes  ! ” 

“What,”  said  I,  “do  you  mean  ?” 

“ Ja,”  was  the  only  reply. 

“If  you  know  English,  why  won’t  you  speak  it  ?” 
“Damn  his  eyes!  ” said  he,  with  a deep  solemn  tone. 

“Is  that  all  you  know  of  the  language  ?”  cried  I,  stamp- 
ing with  impatience.  “Can  you  say  no  more  than  that  ?” 

“ Damn  your  eyes ! ” ejaculated  he,  with  as  much  com- 
posure as  though  he  were  maintaining  an  earnest  conver- 
sation. 

When  I had  sufficiently  recovered  from  the  hearty  fit  of 
laughter  this  colloquy  occasioned  me,  I began  by  signs,  — 
such  as  melodramatic  people  make  to  express  sleep,  placing 
my  head  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,  snoring  and  yawning,  — 
to  represent  that  I stood  in  need  of  a bed. 

“Ja,”  cried  my  companion,  with  more  energy  than 
before,  and  led  the  way  down  one  narrow  street  and  up 
another,  traversing  lanes  where  two  men  could  scarcely  go 
abreast,  until  at  length  we  reached  a branch  of  the  Scheldt, 
along  which  we  continued  for  about  twenty  minutes.  Sud- 


STRANGE  CHARACTERS. 


57 


denly  the  sound  of  voices  shouting  a species  of  Dutch  tune 
— for  so  its  unspeakable  words  and  wooden  turns  bespoke 
it  — apprised  me  that  we  were  near  a house  where  the 
people  were  yet  astir. 

“Ha!”  said  I,  “this  is  a hotel  then  ?” 

Another  “ Ja.” 

“ What  do  they  call  it  ?” 

A shake  of  the  head. 

“That  will  do;  good-night,”  said  I,  as  I saw  the  bright 
lights  gleaming  from  the  small  diamond  panes  of  an  old 
Flemish  window;  “I  am  much  obliged  to  you.” 

“Damn  your  eyes!”  said  my  friend,  taking  off  his  hat 
politely,  and  making  me  a low  bow,  while  he  added  some- 
thing in  Flemish,  which  I sincerely  trust  was  of  a more 
polite  and  complimentary  import  than  his  parting  bene- 
diction in  English. 

As  I turned  from  the  Fleming  I entered  a narrow  hall, 
which  led  by  a low-arched  door  into  a large  room,  along 
which  a number  of  tables  were  placed,  each  crowded  by 
its  own  party,  who  clinked  their  cans,  and  vociferated  a 
chorus  which,  from  constant  repetition,  rings  still  in  my 
memory,  — 

“ Wenn  die  wein  ist  in  die  mann, 

Der  weisdheid  den  ist  in  die  kan ; ” 

or,  in  the  vernacular,  — 

“When  the  wine  is  in  the  man, 

Then  is  the  wisdom  in  the  can,”  — 

a sentiment  which  a very  brief  observation  of  their  faces 
induced  me  perfectly  to  concur  in.  Over  the  chimney- 
piece  an  inscription  was  painted  in  letters  of  about  a foot 
long,  “Hier  verkoopt  man  Bier,”  — implying,  what  a very 
cursory  observation  might  have  conveyed  to  any  one,  even 
on  the  evidence  of  his  nose,  that  beer  was  a very  attainable 
fluid  in  the  establishment.  The  floor  was  sanded  and  the 
walls  whitewashed,  save  where  some  pictorial  illustrations 
of  Flemish  habits  were  displayed  in  black  chalk  or  the 
smoke  of  a candle. 

As  I stood  uncertain  whether  to  advance  or  retreat,  a 


58 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


large  portly  Fleming,  with  a great  waistcoat  made  of  the 
skin  of  some  beast,  eyed  me  steadfastly  from  head  to  foot, 
and  then,  as  if  divining  my  embarrassment,  beckoned  me 
to  approach,  and  pointed  to  a seat  on  the  bench  beside  him. 
I was  not  long  in  availing  myself  of  his  politeness,  and 
before  half  an  hour  elapsed  found  myself  with  a brass  can 
of  beer,  about  eighteen  inches  in  height,  before  me,  while 
I was  smoking  away  as  though  I had  been  born  within  the 
dykes,  and  never  knew  the  luxury  of  dry  land. 

Around  the  table  sat  some  seven  or  eight  others,  whose 
phlegmatic  look  and  sententious  aspect  convinced  me  they 
were  Flemings.  At  the  far  end,  however,  was  one  whose 
dark  eyes,  flashing  beneath  heavy  shaggy  eyebrows,  huge 
whiskers,  and  bronzed  complexion  distinguished  him  suffi- 
ciently from  the  rest.  He  appeared,  too,  to  have  something 
of  respect  paid  him,  inasmuch  as  the  others  invariably 
nodded  to  him  whenever  they  lifted  their  cans  to  their 
mouths.  He  wore  a low  fur  cap  on  his  head,  and  his 
dark-blue  frock  was  trimmed  also  with  fur,  and  slashed 
with  a species  of  braiding,  like  au  undress  uniform.  Un- 
like the  rest,  he  spoke  a great  deal,  not  only  to  his  own 
party,  but  maintained  a conversation  with  various  others 
through  the  room,  — sometimes  speaking  French,  then 
Dutch,  and  occasionally  changing  to  German,  or  Italian, 
with  all  which  tongues  he  appeared  so  familiar  that  I was 
fairly  puzzled  to  what  country  to  assign  him.  I could 
mark  at  times  that  he  stole  a sly  glance  over  towards 
where  I was  sitting,  and  more  than  once  I thought  I 
observed  him  watching  what  effect  his  voluble  powers  as 
a linguist  was  producing  upon  me.  At  last  our  eyes  met; 
he  smiled  politely,  and  taking  up  the  can  before  him,  he 
bowed,  saying,  — 

“ A votre  sant6,  Monsieur.” 

I acknowledged  the  compliment  at  once,  and  seizing  the 
opportunity,  begged  to  know  of  what  land  so  accomplished 
a linguist  was  a native.  His  face  brightened  up  at  once; 
a certain  smile  of  self-satisfied  triumph  passed  over  his 
features;  he  smacked  his  lips,  and  then  poured  out  a tor- 
rent of  strange  sounds,  which  from  their  accent  I guessed 
to  be  Russian. 


STRANGE  CHARACTERS. 


59 


“Do  you  speak  Slavonic?”  said  he  in  French;  and  as  I 
nodded  a negative,  he  added,  “ Spanish,  Portuguese  ? ” 
“Neither,”  said  I. 

“Where  do  you  come  from,  then  ?”  asked  he,  retorting 
my  question. 

“Ireland,  if  you  may  have  heard  of  such  a place.” 
“Hurroo!”  cried  he,  with  a yell  that  made  the  room 
start  with  amazement.  “By  the  powers!  I thought  so! 
Come  up,  my  hearty,  and  give  me  a shake  of  your  hand!  ” 
If  I were  astonished  before,  need  I say  how  I felt  now  ? 
“And  you  are  realty  a countryman  of  mine  ?”  said  I,  as 
I took  my  seat  beside  him. 

“Faith,  I believe  so.  Con  O’Kelly  does  not  sound  very 
like  Italian ; and  that ’s  my  name,  anyhow.  But  wait  a 
bit,  they  ’re  calling  on  me  for  a Dutch  song,  and  when 
I ’ve  done  we  ’ll  have  a chat  together.” 

A very  uproarious  clattering  of  brass  and  pewter  cans 
on  the  tables  announced  that  the  company  was  becoming 
impatient  for  Mynheer  O’Kelly’s  performance,  which  he 
immediately  began;  but  of  either  the  words  or  air,  I can 
render  no  possible  account.  I only  know  there  was  a kind 
of  refrain  or  chorus,  in  which  all,  round  each  table,  took 
hands,  and  danced  a “grand  round,”  making  the  most  dia- 
bolical clatter  with  wooden  shoes  I ever  listened  to.  After 
which,  the  song  seemed  to  subside  into  a low  droning  sound, 
implying  sleep.  The  singer  nodded  his  head,  the  company 
followed  the  example,  and  a long  heavy  note,  like  snoring, 
was  heard  through  the  room;  when  suddenly,  with  a hic- 
cup, he  awoke,  the  others  did  the  same,  and  then  the  song 
broke  out  once  more  in  all  its  vigor,  to  end  as  before,  in 
another  dance,  — an  exercise  in  which  I certainty  fared 
worse  than  my  neighbors,  who  tramped  on  my  corns  with- 
out mercy,  leaving  it  a very  questionable  fact  how  far  his 
“pious,  glorious,  and  immortal  memory”  was  to  be  re- 
spected who  had  despoiled  my  country  of  wooden  shoes 
when  walking  off  with  its  brass  money. 

The  melody  over,  Mr.  O’Kelly  proceeded  to  question  me 
somewhat  minutely  as  to  how  I had  chanced  upon  this 
house,  which  was  not  known  to  many  even  of  the  residents 
of  Antwerp.  I briefly  explained  to  him  the  circumstances 


60 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


which  led  me  to  my  present  asylum,  at  which  he  laughed 
heartily. 

“You  don’t  know,  then,  where  you  are?”  said  he, 
looking  at  me  with  a droll,  half-suspicious  smile. 

“No;  it’s  a Schenck  Haus,  I suppose,”  replied  I. 

“Yes,  to  be  sure,  it  is  a Schenck  Haus;  but  it’s  the 
resort  only  of  smugglers,  and  those  connected  with  their 
traffic.  Every  man  about  you  — and  there  are,  as  you  see, 
some  seventy  or  eighty  — is  either  a seafaring  man,  or  lands- 
man associated  with,  in  contraband  trade.” 

“But  how  is  this  done  so  openly?  The  house  is  surely 
known  to  the  police.” 

“ Of  course,  and  they  are  well  paid  for  taking  no  notice 
of  it.” 

“And  you? ” 

“Me!  Well,  I do  a little  that  way  too,  though  it’s 
only  a branch  of  my  business.  I ’m  only  Dirk  Hatteraick 
when  I come  down  to  the  coast.  Then  you  know  a man 
doesn’t  like  to  be  idle;  so  that  when  I’m  here,  or  on  the 
Bretagny  shore,  I generally  mount  the  red  cap  and  buckle 
on  the  cutlass,  just  to  keep  moving,  — as  when  I go  inland 
I take  an  occasional  turn  with  the  gypsy  folk  in  Bohemia, 
or  their  brethren  in  the  Basque  provinces.  There ’s  noth- 
ing like  being  up  to  everything, — that’s  my  way.” 

I confess  I was  a good  deal  surprised  at  my  companion’s 
account  of  himself,  and  not  over  impressed  with  the  rigor 
of  his  principles;  but  my  curiosity  to  know  more  of  him 
became  so  much  the  stronger. 

“ Well,”  said  I,  “you  seem  to  have  a jolly  life  of  it,  and 
certainly  a healthful  one.” 

“Ay,  that  it  is,”  replied  he,  quickly.  “I  ’ve  more  than 
once  thought  of  going  back  to  Kerry,  and  living  quietly 
for  the  rest  of  my  days,  for  I could  afford  it  well  enough ; 
but  somehow  the  thought  of  staying  in  one  place,  talking 
always  to  the  same  set  of  people,  seeing  every  day  the  same 
sights,  and  hearing  the  same  eternal  little  gossip  about 
little  things  and  little  folk,  was  too  much  for  me;  and  so 
I stuck  to  the  old  trade,  which  I suppose  I ’ll  not  give  up 
now  as  long  as  I live.” 

“And  what  may  that  be?”  asked  I,  curious  to  know  how 


STRANGE  CHARACTERS. 


61 


he  filled  up  moments  snatched  from  the  agreeable  pursuits 
he  had  already  mentioned. 

He  eyed  me  with  a shrewd,  suspicious  look  for  above 
a minute,  and  then,  laying  down  his  hand  on  my  arm, 
said,  — 

“Where  do  you  put  up  at,  here  in  Antwerp?’’ 

“The  St.  Antoine.” 

“Well,  I ’ll  come  over  for  you  to-morrow  evening  about 
nine  o’clock;  you  ’re  not  engaged,  are  you?” 

“INo,  I’ve  no  acquaintance  here.” 

“At  nine,  then,  be  ready;  and  you’ll  come  and  take  a 
bit  of  supper  with  me;  and  in  exchange  for  your  news  of 
the  old  country,  I ’ll  tell  you  something  of  my  career.” 

I readily  assented  to  a proposal  which  promised  to  make 
me  better  acquainted  with  one  evidently  a character;  and 
after  half  an  hour’s  chatting,  I arose. 

“You’re  not  going  away,  are  you?”  said  he.  “Well,  I 
can't  leave  this  yet;  so  I ’ll  just  send  a boy  to  show  you 
the  way  to  St.  Antony.” 

With  that  he  beckoned  to  a lad  at  one  of  the  tables,  and 
addressing  a few  words  in  Flemish  to  him  he  shook  me 
warmly  by  the  hand.  The  whole  room  rose  respectfully 
as  I took  my  leave,  and  I could  see  that  “ Mynheer 
O’Kelly’s  friend”  stood  in  no  small  estimation  with  the 
company. 

The  day  was  just  breaking  when  I reached  my  hotel; 
but  I knew  I could  poach  on  the  daylight  for  what  the 
dark  had  robbed  me;  and,  besides,  my  new  acquaintance 
promised  to  repay  the  loss  of  a night’s  sleep,  should  it 
even  come  to  that. 

Punctual  to  his  appointment,  my  newly-made  friend 
knocked  at  my  door  exactly  as  the  cathedral  was  chiming 
for  nine  o’clock.  His  dress  was  considerably  smarter 
than  on  the  preceding  evening,  and  his  whole  air  and 
bearing  bespoke  a degree  of  quiet  decorum  and  reserve 
very  different  from  his  free-and-easy  carriage  in  the 
Fischer’s  Haus.  As  I accompanied  him  through  the 
porte-cochere,  we  passed  the  landlord,  who  saluted  us  with 
much  politeness,  shaking  my  companion  by  the  hand  like 
an  old  friend. 


62 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“You  are  acquainted  here,  I see,”  said  I. 

“There  are  few  landlords  from  Lubeck  to  Leghorn  I 
don’t  know  by  this  time,”  was  the  reply;  and  he  smiled 
as  he  spoke. 

A caliche  with  one  horse  was  waiting  for  us  without, 
and  into  this  we  stepped.  The  driver  had  got  his  direc- 
tions, and  plying  his  whip  briskly,  we  rattled  over  the 
paved  streets,  and  passing  through  a considerable  part  of 
the  town  arrived  at  last  at  one  of  the  gates.  Slowly  cross- 
ing the  drawbridge  at  a walk,  we  set  out  again  at  a trot, 
and  soon  I could  perceive,  through  the  half  light,  that  we  had 
traversed  the  suburbs  and  were  entering  the  open  country. 

“We’ve  not  far  to  go  now,”  said  my  companion,  who 
seemed  to  suspect  that  I was  meditating  over  the  length 
of  the  way;  “where  you  see  the  lights  yonder,  that’s  our 
ground.” 

The  noise  of  the  wheels  over  the  stones  soon  after 
ceased,  and  I found  we  were  passing  across  a grassy  lawn 
in  front  of  a large  house,  which  even  by  the  twilight  I 
could  detect  was  built  in  the  old  Flemish  taste.  A square 
tower  flanked  one  extremity,  and  from  the  upper  part  of 
this  the  light  gleamed  to  which  my  companion  pointed. 

We  descended  from  the  carriage  at  the  foot  of  a long 
terrace,  which,  though  dilapidated  and  neglected,  bore 
still  some  token  of  its  ancient  splendor.  A stray  statue 
here  and  there  remained,  to  mark  its  former  beauty; 
while,  close  by,  the  hissing  splash  of  water  told  that  a 
jet  (Veau  was  playing  away,  unconscious  that  its  river 
gods,  dolphins,  and  tritons  had  long  since  departed. 

“A  fine  old  place  once,”  said  my  new  friend,  — “the  old 
chateau  of  Overghem;  one  of  the  richest  seignories  of 
Flanders  in  its  day;  sadly  changed  now.  But  come, 
follow  me.” 

So  saying,  he  led  the  way  into  the  hall,  where,  detach- 
ing a rude  lantern  that  was  hung  against  the  wall,  he 
ascended  the  broad  oak  stairs. 

I could  trace  by  the  fitful  gleam  of  the  light  that  the 
walls  had  been  painted  in  fresco,  the  architraves  of  the 
windows  and  doors  being  richly  carved  in  all  the  gro- 
tesque extravagance  of  old  Flemish  art;  a gallery  which 


STRANGE  CHARACTERS. 


63 


traversed  the  building  was  hung  with  old  pictures,  appar- 
ently family  portraits,  but  they  were  all  either  destroyed 
by  damp  or  rotting  with  neglect.  At  the  extremity  of 
this,  a narrow  stair  conducted  us  by  a winding  ascent  to 
the  upper  story  of  the  tower,  where  for  the  first  time  my 
companion  had  recourse  to  a key;  with  this  he  opened  a 
low  pointed  door,  and  ushered  me  into  an  apartment  at 
which  I could  scarcely  help  expressing  my  surprise  aloud, 
as  I entered. 

The  room  was  of  small  dimensions,  but  seemed  actually 
the  boudoir  of  a palace.  Rich  cabinets  in  buhl  graced  the 
walls,  brilliant  in  all  the  splendid  costliness  of  tortoise- 
shell and  silver  inlaying,  bronzes  of  the  rarest  kind, 
pictures,  vases;  curtains  of  gorgeous  damask  covered  the 
windows;  and  a chimney-piece  of  carved  black  oak,  rep- 
resenting a pilgrimage,  presented  a depth  of  perspective 
and  a beauty  of  design  beyond  anything  I had  ever  wit- 
nessed. The  floor  was  covered  with  an  old  tapestry  of 
Oudenarde,  spread  over  a heavy  Persian  rug,  into  which 
the  feet  sank  at  every  step;  while  a silver  lamp,  of  antique 
mould,  threw  a soft  mellow  light  around,  revolving  on  an 
axis,  whose  machinery  played  a slow  but  soothing  melody 
delightfully  in  harmony  with  all  about. 

“You  like  this  kind  of  thing,”  said  my  companion,  who 
watched  with  evident  satisfaction  the  astonishment  and 
admiration  with  which  I regarded  every  object  around  me. 
“That’s  a pretty  bit  of  carving  there;  that  was  done  by 
Van  Zoost,  from  a design  of  Schneider’s;  see  how  the  lob- 
sters are  crawling  over  the  tangled  sea-weed  there,  and 
look  how  the  leaves  seem  to  fall  heavy  and  flaccid,  as  if 
wet  with  spray.  This  is  good,  too;  it  was  painted  by 
Gherard  Dow.  It  is  a portrait  of  himself;  he  is  making 
a study  of  that  little  boy  who  stands  there  on  the  table; 
see  how  he  has  disposed  the  light  so  as  to  fall  on  the  little 
fellow’s  side,  tipping  him  from  the  yellow  curls  of  his 
round  bullet-head  to  the  angle  of  his  white  sabot.  — Yes, 
you’re  right,  that  is  by  Van  Dyck;  only  a sketch,  to  be 
sure,  but  has  all  his  manner.  I like  the  Velasquez  yonder 
better,  but  they  both  possess  the  same  excellence.  They 
could  represent  birth.  Just  see  that  dark  fellow  there: 


64 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


he’s  no  beauty,  you’ll  say;  but  regard  him  closely,  and 
tell  me  if  he ’s  one  to  take  a liberty  with;  look  at  his  thin, 
clenched  lip,  and  that  long,  thin,  pointed  chin,  with  its 
straight,  stiff  beard,  — can  there  be  a doubt  he  was  a gen- 
tleman ? — Take  care ! gently,  your  elbow  grazed  it.  That 
is  a specimen  of  the  old  Japan  china, — a lost  art  now; 
they  cannot  produce  the  blue  color  you  see  there,  running 
into  green.  See,  the  flowers  are  laid  on  after  the  cup  is 
baked,  and  the  birds  are  a separate  thing  after  all.  But 
come,  this  is,  perhaps,  tiresome  work  to  you;  follow  me.” 

Notwithstanding  my  earnest  entreaty  to  remain,  he  took 
me  by  the  arm,  and  opening  a small  door  covered  by  a 
mirror,  led  me  into  another  room,  the  walls  and  ceiling  of 
which  were  in  dark  oak  wainscot;  a single  picture  occu- 
pied the  space  above  the  chimney,  to  which  however  I gave 
little  attention,  my  eyes  being  fixed  upon  a most  appetiz- 
ing supper,  which  figured  on  a small  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  Not  even  the  savory  odor  of  the  good  dishes, 
or  my  host’s  entreaty  to  begin,  could  turn  me  from  the 
contemplation  of  the  antique  silver  covers,  carved  in  the 
richest  fashion.  The  handles  of  the  knives  were  fash- 
ioned into  representations  of  saints  and  angels;  the  costly 
ruby  glasses,  of  Venetian  origin,  were  surrounded  with 
cases  of  gold  filagree,  of  most  delicate  and  beautiful 
character. 

“We  must  be  our  own  attendants,”  said  the  host. 
“ What  have  you  there  ? Here  are  some  Ostend  oysters, 
en  matelot ; that  is  a small  capon  truffe  ; and  here  are 
some  cutlets  aux  points  d’asperge.  But  let  us  begin,  and 
explore  as  we  proceed.  A glass  of  chablis  with  your 
oysters;  what  a pity  these  Burgundy  wines  are  inaccessi- 
ble to  you  in  England!  Chablis  scarcely  bears  the  sea, 
— of  half  a dozen  bottles  one  is  drinkable;  the  same  of  the 
red  wines;  and  what  is  there  so  generous  ? — not  that  we 
are  to  despise  our  old  friend  champagne.  And  now  that 
you ’ve  helped  yourself  to  a pate,  let  us  have  a bumper.  By 
the  bye,  have  they  abandoned  that  absurd  notion  they  used 
to  have  in  England  about  champagne  ? When  I was  there, 
they  never  served  it  during  the  first  course.  Now,  cham- 
pagne should  come  immediately  after  your  soup:  your  glass 


STRANGE  CHARACTERS. 


65 


of  sherry  or  madeira  is  a holocaust  offered  up  to  bad  cook- 
ery; for  if  the  soup  were  safe,  chablis  or  sauterne  is  your 
fluid.  How  is  the  capon  ? — good  ? I’m  glad  of  it.-  These 
countries  excel  in  their  poulardes 

In  this  fashion  my  companion  ran  on,  accompanying 
each  plate  with  some  commentary  on  its  history  or  con- 
coction, — a kind  of  dissertation,  I must  confess,  I have 
no  manner  of  objection  to,  especially  when  delivered  by 
a host  who  illustrates  his  theorem  not  by  “plates”  but 
“dishes.” 

Supper  over,  we  wheeled  the  table  to  the  wall,  and 
drawing  forward  another,  on  which  the  wine  and  dessert 
were  already  laid  out,  prepared  to  pass  a pleasant  and 
happy  evening  in  all  form. 

“Worse  countries  than  Holland,  Mr.  O’Leary,”  said  my 
companion,  as  he  sipped  his  burgundy,  and  looked  with 
ecstasy  at  the  rich  color  of  the  wine  through  the  candle. 

“When  seen  thus,”  said  I,  “I  don’t  know  its  equal.” 

“ Why,  perhaps  this  is  rather  a favorable  specimen  of  a 
smuggler’s  cave,”  replied  he,  laughing.  “Better  than  old 
Dirk’s,  eh?  By  the  bye,  do  you  know  Scott?” 

“No;  I am  sorry  to  say  that  I am  not  acquainted  with 
him.” 

“ What  the  devil  could  have  led  him  into  such  a blunder 
as  to  make  Hatteraick,  a regular  Dutchman,  sing  a German 
song?  Why,  ‘ Ich  Bin  liederlich  ’ is  good  Hoch-Deutsch, 
and  Saxon  to  boot.  A Hollander  might  just  as  well  have 
chanted  modern  Greek  or  Coptic.  I ’ll  wager  you  that 
Rubens  there  over  the  chimney,  against  a crown-piece, 
you’ll  not  find  a Dutchman,  from  Dort  to  Nimwegen, 
could  repeat  the  lines  that  he  has  made  a regular  national 
song  of.  And  again,  in  ‘ Quentin  Durward,  ’ he  has  made 
all  the  Likge  folk  speak  German.  That  was  even  a worse 
mistake.  Some  of  them  speak  French ; but  the  nation,  the 
people,  are  Walloons,  and  have  as  much  idea  of  German  as 
a Hottentot  has  of  the  queen  of  hearts.  Never  mind, 
he ’s  a glorious  fellow  for  all  that,  and  here ’s  his  health. 
When  will  Ireland  have  his  equal  to  chronicle  her  feats 
of  field  and  flood,  and  make  her  land  as  classic  as  Scott  has 
done  his  own ! ” 


5 


66 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


While  we  rambled  on,  chatting  of  all  that  came  upper- 
most, the  wine  passed  freely  across  the  narrow  table,  and 
the  evening  wore  on.  My  curiosity  to  know  more  of  one 
who  on  whatever  he  talked  seemed  thoroughly  informed, 
grew  gradually  more  and  more;  and  at  last  I ventured  to 
remind  him  that  he  had  half  promised  me  the  previous 
evening  to  let  me  hear  something  of  his  own  history. 

“No,  no,”  said  he,  laughing;  “story-telling  is  poor  work 
for  the  teller  and  the  listener  too;  and  when  a man’s  tale 
has  not  even  brought  a moral  to  himself,  it ’s  scarcely 
likely  to  be  more  generous  towards  his  neighbor.” 

“Of  course,”  said  I,  “I  have  no  claim  as  a stranger  — ” 
“Oh,  as  to  that,”  interrupted  he,  “somehow  I feel  as 
though  we  were  longer  acquainted.  I ’ve  seen  much  of 
the  world,  and  know  by  this  time  that  some  men  begin 
to  know  each  other  from  the  starting-post;  others  never 
do,  though  they  travel  a life-long  together,  — so  that  on 
that  score,  no  modesty.  If  you  care  for  my  story,  fill  your 
glass,  and  let’s  open  another  flask;  and  here  it’s  for  you, 
though  I warn  you  beforehand  the  narrative  is  somewhat 
of  the  longest.” 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 

“I  can  tell  you  but  little  about  my  family,”  said  my 
host,  stretching  out  his  legs  to  the  fire,  and  crossing  his 
arms  easily  before  him.  “My  grandfather  was  in  the 
Austrian  service,  and  was  killed  in  some  old  battle  with 
the  Turks.  My  father,  Peter  O’ Kelly,  was  shot  in  a duel 
by  an  attorney  from  Youghal.  Something  about  nailing 
his  ear  to  the  pump,  I ’ve  heard  tell,  was  the  cause  of  the 
row;  for  he  came  down  to  my  father’s  with  a writ,  or  a 
process,  or  something  of  the  kind.  No  matter,  the  thief 
had  pluck  in  him;  and  when  Peter  — my  father  that  was 
— told  him  he ’d  make  a gentleman  of  him,  and  fight  him, 
if  he ’d  give  up  the  bill  of  costs,  why,  the  temptation  was 
too  strong  to  resist;  he  pitched  the  papers  into  the  fire, 
went  out  the  same  morning,  and  faith  he  put  in  his  bullet 
as  fair  as  if  he  was  used  to  the  performance.  I was  only 
a child  then,  ten  or  eleven  years  old,  and  so  I remember 
nothing  of  the  particulars ; but  I was  packed  off  the  next 
day  to  an  old  aunt’s,  a sister  of  my  father,  who  resided  in 
the  town  of  Tralee. 

“Well,  to  be  sure,  it  was  a great  change  for  me,  young 
as  I was,  from  Castle  O’Kelly  to  Aunt  Judy’s.  At  home 
there  was  a stable  full  of  horses,  a big  house  generally  full 
of  company,  and  the  company  as  full  of  fun.  We  had  a 
pack  of  harriers  went  out  twice  or  thrice  a week,  had 
plenty  of  snipe-shooting,  and  a beautiful  race-course  was 
made  round  the  lawn;  and  though  I wasn’t  quite  of  an 
age  to  join  in  these  pleasures  myself,  I had  a lively  taste 
for  them  all,  and  relished  the  free-and-easy  style  of  my 
father’s  house,  without  any  unhappy  forebodings  that  the 
amusements  there  practised  would  end  in  leaving  me  a 
beggar. 


68 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“Now,  my  Aunt  Judy  lived  in  what  might  be  called  a 
state  of  painfully-elegant  poverty.  Her  habitation  was 
somewhat  more  capacious  than  a house  in  a toy-shop;  but 
then  it  had  all  the  usual  attributes  of  a house.  There  was 
a hall  door  and  two  windows  and  a chimney  and  a brass 
knocker,  and,  I believe,  a scraper;  and  within  there  were 
three  little  rooms,  about  the  dimensions  of  a mail-coach, 
each.  I think  I see  the  little  parlor  before  me  now,  this 
minute.  There  was  a miniature  of  my  father  in  a red  coat 
over  the  chimney,  and  two  screens  painted  by  my  aunt,  — 
landscapes,  I am  told  they  were  once,  but  time  and  damp 
had  made  them  look  something  like  the  moon  seen  through 
a bit  of  smoked  glass ; and  there  were  fire-irons  as  bright 
as  day,  for  they  never  performed  any  other  duty  than 
standing  on  guard  beside  the  grate,  — a kind  of  royal  beef- 
eaters, kept  for  show;  and  there  was  a little  table  covered 
with  shells  and  minerals,  bits  of  coral,  conchs,  and  cheap 
curiosities  of  that  nature,  and  over  them,  again,  was  a 
stuffed  macaw.  Oh,  dear!  I see  it  all  before  me,  and  the 
little  tea-service,  that  if  the  beverage  had  been  vitriol  a 
cupful  could  n’t  have  harmed  you.  There  were  four  chairs, 
— human  ingenuity  couldn’t  smuggle  in  a fifth;  there  was 
one  for  Father  Donnellan,  another  for  Mrs.  Brown  the 
post-mistress,  another  for  the  barrack-master  Captain 
Dwyer,  the  fourth  for  my  aunt  herself;  but  then  no  more 
were  wanted.  Nothing  but  real  gentility,  the  ‘ ould  Irish 
blood,’  would  be  received  by  Miss  Judy;  and  if  the  post- 
mistress was  n’t  fourteenth  cousin  to  somebody,  who  was 
aunt  to  Phelim  O’Brien,  who  was  hanged  for  some  humane 
practice  towards  the  English  in  former  times,  the  devil  a 
cup  of  bohea  she ’d  have  tasted  there!  The  priest  was  ex 
officio,  b\it  Captain  Dwyer  was  a gentleman  born  and  bred. 
His  great-grandfather  had  an  estate;  the  last  three  genera- 
tions had  lived  on  the  very  reputation  of  its  once  being  in 
the  family.  ‘ They  weren’t  upstarts, — no,  sorrow  bit  of 
it;  ’ ‘ when  they  had  it  they  spent  it,’  and  so  on,  were  the 
current  expressions  concerning  them.  Faith,  1 will  say 
that  in  my  time  in  Ireland  — I don’t  know  how  it  may  be 
now  — the  aroma  of  a good  property  stood  to  the  descend- 
ants long  after  the  substance  had  left  them ; and  if  they 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


69 


only  stuck  fast  to  the  place  where  the  family  had  once 
been  great,  it  took  at  least  a couple  of  generations  before 
they  need  think  of  looking  out  for  a livelihood. 

“Aunt  Judy’s  revenue  was  something  like  eighty  pounds 
a year;  but  in  Tralee  she  was  not  measured  by  the  rule  of 
the  income  tax.  Wasn’t  she  own  sister  to  Peter  O’Kelly 
of  the  Castle;  did  n’t  Brien  O’Kelly  call  at  the  house  when 
he  was  canvassing  for  the  member,  and  leave  his  card ; and 
wasn’t  the  card  displayed  on  the  little  mahogany  table 
every  evening,  and  wiped  and  put  by  every  morning,  for 
fifteen  years?  And  sure  the  O’lvellys  had  their  own 
burial-ground, — the  ‘ O’Kellys’  pound,’  as  it  was  called, 
being  a square  spot  inclosed  within  a wall,  and  employed 
for  all  ‘ trespassers  ’ of  the  family  within  death’s  domain. 
Here  was  gentility  enough  in  all  conscience,  even  had  the 
reputation  of  her  evening  parties  not  been  the  talk  of  the 
town.  These  were  certainly  exclusive  enough,  and  con- 
sisted as  I have  told  you. 

“Aunt  Judy  loved  her  rubber,  and  so  did  her  friends; 
and  eight  o’clock  every  evening  saw  the  little  party  assem- 
bled at  a game  of  ‘longs,’  for  penny  points.  It  was  no 
small  compliment  to  the  eyesight  of  the  players  that  they 
could  distinguish  the  cards;  for  with  long  use  they  had 
become  dimmed  and  indistinct.  The  queens  had  con- 
tracted a very  tatterdemalion  look,  and  the  knaves  had 
got  a most  vagabond  expression  for  want  of  their  noses,  — 
not  to  speak  of  other  difficulties  in  dealing,  which  cer- 
tainly required  an  expert  hand,  all  the  corners  having 
long  disappeared,  leaving  the  operation  something  like 
playing  at  quoits. 

“The  discipline  of  such  an  establishment,  I need  scarcely 
say,  was  very  distasteful  to  me.  I was  seldom  suffered  to 
go  beyond  the  door,  more  rarely  still  alone.  My  whole 
amusement  consisted  in  hearing  about  the  ancient  grandeur 
of  the  O’Kellys,  and  listening  to  a very  prosy  history  of 
certain  martyrs,  not  one  of  whom  I did  n’t  envy  in  my 
heart;  while  in  the  evening  I slept  beneath  the  whist 
table,  being  too  much  afraid  of  ghosts  to  venture  upstairs 
to  bed.  It  was  on  one  of  those  evenings,  when  the  party 
were  assembled  as  usual,  that  some  freak  of  mine  — I fear 


70 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


I was  a rebellious  subject  — was  being  discussed  between 
the  deals,  and  it  chanced  that  by  some  accident  I was 
awake,  and  heard  the  colloquy. 

’Tis  truth  I ’m  telling  you,  ma’am,’  quoth  my  aunt; 
‘ you ’d  think  he  was  as  mild  as  milk,  and  there  is  n’t  a 
name  for  the  wickedness  in  him.’ 

“ ‘ When  I was  in  the  Buffs,  there  was  a fellow  of  the 
name  of  Clancy  — ’ 

“ ‘ Play  a spade,  Captain,  ’ said  the  priest,  who  had  no 
common  horror  of  the  story  he  had  heard  every  evening 
for  twenty  years. 

“‘And  did  he  really  put  the  kitten  into  the  oven?’ 
inquired  Mrs.  Brown. 

“‘Worse  than  that:  he  brought  in  Healy’s  buck  goat 
yesterday,  and  set  him  opposite  the  looking-glass;  and 
the  beast,  thinking  he  saw  another  opposite  him,  bolted 
straightforward,  and,  my  dear,  he  stuck  his  horns  through 
the  middle  of  it.  There  is  n’t  a piece  as  big  as  the  ace  of 
diamonds.  ’ 

“ ‘ When  I was  in  the  Buffs  — ’ 

‘“’Tis  at  say  he  ought  to  be, — don’t  you  think  so, 
Captain?  ’ said  the  priest;  ‘ them ’s  trumps.’ 

“ ‘ I beg  your  pardon,  Father  Donnellan ; let  me  look  at 
the  trick.  — Well,  I ’m  sure  I pity  you,  Miss  O’Kelly.’ 
“‘And  why  wouldn’t  you?  His  mother  had  a bad  drop 
in  her,  ’tis  easy  seen.  Sure,  Peter  that ’s  gone,  — rest  his 
soul  in  peace!  he  never  harmed  man  nor  beast;  but  that 
child  there  has  notions  of  wickedness  that  would  surprise 
you.  My  elegant  cornelian  necklace  he ’s  taken  the  stones 
out  of,  till  it  nearly  chokes  me  to  put  it  on.’ 

“‘  When  I was  in  the  Buffs,  Miss  O’Kelly,  there  was  — ’ 
“ ‘ Pay  fourpence,  ’ said  the  priest,  pettishly,  ‘ and  cut 
the  cards.  — As  I was  saying,  I ’d  send  him  to  say,  and  if 
the  stories  be  thrue  T hear,  lie’s  not  ill-fitted  for  it;  he 
does  be  the  most  of  his  time  up  there  at  the  caves  of  Bally- 
bunnion,  with  the  smugglers.’ 

“My  aunt  crimsoned  a little  at  this,  as  I could  see  from 
my  place  on  the  hearth-rug;  for  it  was  only  the  day  before 
I had  brought  in  a package  of  green  tea,  obtained  from  the 
quarter  alluded  to. 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


71 


“‘I’d  send  him  to  Banagher  to-morrow,’  said  he,  reso- 
lutely; ‘ I ’d  send  him  to  school.’ 

“ ‘ There  was  one  Clancy,  I was  saying,  a great  devil  he 
was  — ’ 

‘“And,  faix,  ould  Martin  will  tlog  his  tricks  out  of  him 
if  birch  will  do  it,’  said  the  priest. 

’T  is  only  a fortnight  since  he  put  hot  cinders  in  the 
letter-box,  and  burned  half  the  Dublin  bag,’  said  Mrs. 
Brown.  ‘The  town  will  be  well  rid  of  him.’ 

“This  was  exactly  the  notion  1 was  coming  to  myself, 
though  differing  widely  as  to  the  destination  by  which  I 
was  to  manage  my  exchange  out  of  it.  The  kind  wishes 
of  the  party  towards  me,  too,  had  another  effect,  — it 
nerved  me  with  a courage  1 never  felt  before;  and  when 
1 took  the  first  opportunity  of  a squabble  at  the  whist- 
table  to  make  my  escape  from  the  room,  I had  so  little 
fear  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  I opened  the  street-door, 
and,  although  the  way  led  under  the  wall  of  the  church- 
yard, set  out  on  my  travels  in  a direction  which  was  to 
influence  all  my  after  life. 

“ I had  not  proceeded  far  when  I overtook  some  cars  on 
their  way  to  Tarbert,  on  one  of  which  I succeeded  in  obtain- 
ing a seat,  and  by  daybreak  arrived  at  the  Shannon,  the 
object  of  my  desires  and  the  goal  of  all  my  wishes. 

“The  worthy  priest  had  not  calumniated  me  in  saying 
that  my  associates  were  smugglers.  Indeed,  for  weeks 
past  1 never  missed  any  opportunity  of  my  aunt  leaving 
the  house  without  setting  out  to  meet  a party  who  fre- 
quented a small  public-house  about  three  miles  from 
Tralee,  and  with  whom  I made  more  than  one  excursion 
to  the  caves  of  Ballybunnion.  It  was  owing  to  an  acci- 
dental piece  of  information  I afforded  them  that  the  reve- 
nue force  was  on  their  track,  that  I first  learned  to  know 
these  fellows;  and  from  that  moment  I was  a sworn  friend 
of  every  man  among  them.  To  be  sure,  they  were  a mot- 
ley crew.  The  craft  belonged  to  Flushing,  and  the  skipper 
himself  was  a Fleming;  the  others  were  Kinsale  fisher- 
men, Ostenders,  men  from  the  coast  of  Bretagne,  a Norwe- 
gian pilot,  and  a negro  who  acted  as  cook.  Their  jovial 
style  of  life,  the  apparent  good  humor  and  good  fellowship 


72 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


that  subsisted  among  them,  a dash  of  reckless  devil-may- 
care  spirit,  resembling  a schoolboy’s  love  of  fun, — all 
captivated  me;  ancl  when  I found  myself  on  board  the 
‘ Dart,  ’ as  she  lay  at  anchor  under  the  shadow  of  the  tall 
cliffs,  and  saw  the  crew  burnishing  up  pistols  and  cut- 
lasses, and  making  ready  for  a cruise,  I had  a proud  heart 
when  they  told  me  I might  join  and  be  one  among  them. 
I suppose  every  boy  has  something  in  his  nature  that 
inclines  him  to  adventure.  It  was  strong  enough  in  me, 
certainly. 

“The  hardy,  weather-beaten  faces  of  my  companions, 
their  strong  muscular  frames,  their  coarse  uniform  of 
striped  Jersey  wear,  with  black  belts  crossing  on  the 
chest, — all  attracted  my  admiration,  and  from  the  red 
bunting  that  floated  at  our  gaff  to  the  brass  swivels  that 
peeped  from  our  bows,  the  whole  craft  delighted  me.  I 
was  not  long  in  acquiring  the  rough  habits  and  manners 
of  my  associates,  and  speedily  became  a favorite  with 
every  one  on  board.  All  the  eccentricities  of  my  ven- 
erable aunt,  all  the  peculiarities  of  Father  Donnellan, 
were  dished  up  by  me  for  their  amusement,  and  they 
never  got  tired  laughing  at  the  description  of  the  whist- 
table.  Besides,  I was  able  to  afford  them  much  valuable 
information  about  the  neighboring  gentry,  all  of  whom  I 
knew  either  personally  or  by  name.  I was  at  once,  there- 
fore, employed  as  a kind  of  diplomatic  envoy  to  ascertain 
if  Mr.  Blennerhassett  would  n’t  like  a hogshead  of  brandy, 
or  the  Knight  of  Glynn  a pipe  of  claret,  in  addition  to 
many  minor  embassies  among  the  shebeen  houses  of  the 
country,  concerning  nigger-heads  of  tobacco,  packages  of 
tea,  smuggled  lace,  and  silk  handkerchiefs. 

“Thus  was  my  education  begun;  and  an  apter  scholar 
in  all  the  art  and  mystery  of  smuggling  could  scarcely 
have  been  found.  I had  a taste  for  picking  up  languages; 
and  before  my  first  cruise  was  over  had  got  a very  tolera- 
ble smattering  of  French,  Dutch,  and  Norwegian,  and  some 
intimacy  with  the  fashionable  dialect  used  on  the  banks  of 
the  Niger.  Other  accomplishments  followed  these.  I was 
a capital  pistol-shot,  no  bad  hand  with  the  small-sword; 
could  reef  and  steer,  and  had  not  my  equal  on  board  in 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


73 


detecting  a revenue  officer,  no  matter  how  artfully  dis- 
guised. Such  were  my  professional  qualifications;  my 
social  qualifications  far  exceeded  these.  I could  play  a 
little  on  the  violin  and  the  guitar,  and  was  able  to  throw 
into  rude  verse  any  striking  incident  of  our  wild  career, 
and  adapt  an  air  to  it,  for  the  amusement  of  my  com- 
panions. These  I usually  noted  down  in  a book,  accom- 
panying them  with  pen  illustrations  and  notes;  and  I 
assure  you,  however  little  literary  reputation  this  volume 
might  have  acquired,  ‘ O’Kelly ’s  Log,’  as  it  was  called, 
formed  the  great  delight  of  ‘ Saturday  night  at  sea.’ 
These  things  were  all  too  local  and  personal  in  their 
interest  to  amuse  any  one  who  didn’t  know  the  parties; 
but  mayhap  one  day  or  other  I ’ll  give  you  a sight  of  the 
‘ log,  ’ and  let  you  hear  some  of  our  songs. 

“I  won’t  stop  to  detail  any  of  the  adventures  of  my 
seafaring  life;  strange  and  wild  enough  they  were  in  all 
conscience, — one  night  staggering  under  close-reefed  can- 
vas under  a lee-shore ; another,  carousing  with  a jolly  set 
in  a Schenck  Haus  at  Rotterdam  or  Ostend;  now  hiding 
in  the  dark  caves  of  Ballybunnion  while  the  craft  stood 
out  to  sea;  now  disguised,  taking  a run  up  to  Paris,  and 
dining  in  the  Caf6  de  l’Empire,  in  all  the  voluptuous 
extravagance  of  the  day.  Adventure  fast  succeeding  on 
adventure,  escape  upon  escape,  had  given  my  life  a char- 
acter of  wild  excitement,  which  made  me  feel  a single 
day’s  repose  a period  of  ennui  and  monotony. 

“Smuggling,  too,  became  only  a part  of  my  occupation. 
My  knowledge  of  French,  and  my  power  of  disguising  my 
appearance,  enabled  me  to  mix  in  Parisian  society  of  a 
certain  class  without  any  fear  of  detection.  In  this  way  I 
obtained,  from  time  to  time,  information  of  the  greatest 
consequence  to  our  government,  and  once  brought  some 
documents  from  the  war  department  of  Napoleon,  which 
obtained  for  me  the  honor  of  an  interview  with  Mr.  Pitt 
himself.  This  part  of  my  career,  however,  would  take  me 
too'  far  away  from  my  story  were  I to  detail  any  of  the 
many  striking  adventures  which  marked  it;  so  I’ll  pass 
on  at  once  to  one  of  those  eventful  epochs  of  my  life,  two 
or  three  of  which  have  changed  for  the  time  the  current  of 
my  destiny. 


74 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“I  was  about  eighteen;  the  war  with  France  had  just 
broken  out,  and  the  assembled  camp  at  Boulogne  threat- 
ened the  invasion  of  England.  The  morning  we  left  the 
French  coast  the  preparations  for  the  embarkation  of  the 
troops  were  in  great  forwardness,  and  certain  particulars 
had  reached  us  which  convinced  me  that  Napoleon  really 
intended  an  attempt,  which  many  were  disposed  to  believe 
was  merely  a menace.  In  fact,  an  officer  of  the  staff  had 
given  me  such  information  as  explained  the  mode  of  the 
descent  and  the  entire  plan  of  the  expedition.  Before  I 
could  avail  myself  of  this,  however,  we  had  to  land  our 
cargo,  an  unusually  rich  one,  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland; 
for  my  companions  knew  nothing  all  this  time  of  the  sys- 
tem of  espionage  I had  established,  and  little  suspected 
that  one  of  their  crew  was  in  relation  with  the  Prime 
Minister  of  England. 

“ I have  said  I was  about  eighteen.  My  wild  life,  if  it 
had  made  me  feel  older  than  my  years,  had  given  a hardi- 
hood and  enterprise  to  my  character  which  heightened  for 
me  the  enjoyment  of  every  bold  adventure,  and  made  me 
feel  a kind  of  ecstasy  in  every  emergency  where  danger 
and  difficulty  were  present.  I longed  to  be  the  skipper  of 
my  own  craft,  sweeping  the  seas  at  my  own  will,  — a bold 
buccaneer,  caring  less  for  gain  than  glory,  — until  my 
name  should  win  for  itself  its  own  meed  of  fame,  and 
my  feats  be  spoken  of  with  awe  and  astonishment. 

“Old  Van  Brock,  our  captain,  was  a hardy  Fleming;  but 
all  his  energy  of  character,  all  his  daring,  were  directed  to 
the  one  object,  — gain.  For  this  there  was  nothing  he 
wouldn’t  attempt,  nothing  he  wouldn’t  risk.  Now,  our 
present  voyage  was  one  in  which  he  had  embarked  all  his 
capital;  the  outbreak  of  a war  warned  him  that  his  trade 
must  speedily  be  abandoned,  — he  could  no  longer  hope  to 
escape  the  cruisers  of  every  country  that  already  filled  the 
channel.  This  one  voyage,  however,  if  successful,  would 
give  him  an  ample  competence  for  life;  and  he  determined 
to  hazard  everything  upon  it. 

“It  was  a dark  and  stormy  night  in  November  when  we 
made  the  first  light  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland.  Part  of 
our  cargo  was  destined  for  Ballybunnion;  the  remainder, 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


75 


and  most  valuable  portion,  was  to  be  landed  in  the  Bay  of 
Galway.  It  blew  a gale  from  the  southward  and  westward, 
and  the  sea  ran  mountains  high,  — not  the  short  jobble  of 
a land-locked  channel,  but  the  heavy  roll  of  the  great 
Atlantic,  dark  and  frowning,  swelling  to  an  enormous 
height,  and  thundering  away  on  the  iron-bound  coast  to 
leeward  with  a crash  that  made  our  hearts  quiver.  The 
‘ Dart  ’ was  a good  sea-boat,  but  the  waves  swept  her  from 
stem  to  stern;  and  though  nothing  but  a close-reefed  top- 
sail was  bent,  we  went  spinning  through  the  water  at  the 
rate  of  twelve  knots  the  hour.  The  hatchways  were  bat- 
tened down,  and  every  preparation  made  for  a rough  night; 
for  as  the  darkness  increased,  so  did  the  gale. 

“The  smuggler’s  fate  is  a dark  and  gloomy  one.  Let 
the  breeze  fall,  let  the  blue  sky  and  fleecy  clouds  lie  mir- 
rored on  the  glassy  deep,  and  straight  a boat  is  seen 
sweeping  along  with  sixteen  oars,  springing  with  every 
jerk  of  the  strong  arms  to  his  capture;  and  when  the 
white  waves  rise  like  mountains,  and  the  lowering  storm 
descends,  sending  tons  of  water  across  his  decks  and  wet- 
ting his  highest  rigging  with  the  fleecy  drift,  he  dares  not 
cry  for  help:  the  signal  that  would  speak  of  his  distress 
would  be  the  knell  to  toll  his  ruin.  We  knew  this  well; 
we  felt  that,  come  what  would,  from  others  there  was 
nothing  to  be  hoped.  It  was  then  with  agonizing  sus- 
pense we  watched  the  little  craft  as  she  worked  in  the 
stormy  sea;  we  saw  that  with  every  tack  we  were  losing. 
The  strong  land-current  that  set  in  towards  the  shore  told 
upon  us  at  every  reach;  and  when  we  went  about,  the  dark 
and  beetling  cliffs  seemed  actually  toppling  over  us,  and 
the  wild  cries  of  the  sea-fowl  rang  like  a dirge  in  our  ears. 
The  small  storm-jib  we  were  obliged  to  set  sunk  us  by  the 
head,  and  at  every  pitch  the  little  vessel  seemed  threaten- 
ing to  go  down,  bow  foremost. 

“ Our  great  endeavor  was  to  round  the  headland  which 
forms  the  southern  shore  of  the  Shannon’s  mouth.  There 
is  a small  sound  there,  between  this  point  and  the  rocks 
they  call  the  Blasquets,  and  for  this  we  were  making  with 
all  our  might.  Thus  passed  our  night,  and  when  day 
broke  a cheer  of  joy  burst  from  our  little  crew,  as  we 


76 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


beheld  the  Blasquets  on  our  weather-bow,  and  saw  that 
the  sound  lay  straight  before  us.  Scarce  had  the  shout 
died  away,  when  a man  in  the  rigging  cried  out,  — 

“ ‘ A sail  to  windward ! ’ and  the  instant  after  added,  ‘ a 
man-o’-war  brig!’ 

“The  skipper  sprang  on  the  bulwark,  and  setting  his 
glass  in  the  shrouds,  examined  the  object,  which  to  the 
naked  eye  was  barely  a haze  in  the  horizon. 

“‘She  carries  eighteen  guns,’  said  he,  slowly,  ‘and  is 
steering  our  course.  I say,  O’Kelly,  there ’s  no  use  in 
running  in  shore  to  be  pinioned;  what’s  to  be  done?’ 

“The  thought  of  the  information  I was  in  possession 
of  flashed  across  me.  Life  was  never  so  dear  before,  but 
I could  not  speak.  I knew  the  old  man’s  all  was  on  the 
venture;  I knew,  too,  if  we  were  attacked,  his  resolve  was 
to  fight  her  to  the  last  spar  that  floated. 

“‘  Come,’  said  he,  again,  ‘ there ’s  a point  more  south’ard 
in  the  wind;  we  might  haul  her  close  and  make  for  Galway 
Bay.  Two  hours  would  land  the  cargo,  — at  least  enough 
of  it ; and  if  the  craft  must  go  — ’ 

“ A heavy  squall  struck  us  as  he  spoke ; the  vessel  reeled 
over,  till  she  laid  her  cross-trees  in  the  sea.  A snap  like 
the  report  of  a shot  was  heard,  and  the  topmast  came  tum- 
bling down  upon  the  deck,  the  topsail  falling  to  leeward 
and  hanging  by  the  bolt-ropes  over  our  gunwale.  The 
little  craft  immediately  fell  off  from  the  wind,  and  plunged 
deeper  than  ever  in  the  boiling  surf;  at  the  same  instant  a 
booming  sound  swept  across  the  water,  and  a shot  striking 
the  sea  near  ricochetted  over  the  bowsprit,  and  passed  on, 
dipping  and  bounding  towards  the  shore. 

“‘  She’s  one  of  their  newly-built  ones,’  said  the  second 
mate,  an  Irishman,  who  chewed  his  quid  of  tobacco  as  he 
gazed  at  her  as  coolly  as  if  he  was  in  a dockyard.  ‘ I know 
the  ring  of  her  brass  guns.’ 

“A  second  and  a third  flash,  followed  by  two  reports, 
came  almost  together;  but  this  time  they  fell  short  of  us, 
and  passed  away  in  our  wake. 

“We  cut  away  the  fallen  rigging;  and  seeing  nothing 
for  it  now  but  to  look  to  our  own  safety,  we  resolved  to  run 
the  vessel  up  the  bay,  and  try  if  we  could  not  manage  to 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


77 


conceal  some  portions  of  the  cargo  before  the  man-o’-war 
could  overtake  us.  The  caves  along  the  shore  were  all 
well  known  to  us ; every  one  of  them  had  served  either  as 
a store  or  a place  of  concealment.  The  wind,  however, 
freshened  every  minute;  the  storm-jib  was  all  we  could 
carry,  and  this,  instead  of  aiding  us,  dipped  us  heavily  by 
the  head,  while  the  large  ship  gained  momentarily  on  us, 
and  now  her  tall  masts  and  white  sails  lowered  close  in 
our  wake. 

“‘Shall  we  stave  these  puncheons?’  said  the  mate  in 
a whisper  to  the  skipper;  ‘she’ll  be  aboard  of  us  in  no 
time.’ 

“ The  old  man  made  no  reply,  but  his  eyes  turned  from 
the  man-o’-war  to  shore,  and  back  again,  and  his  mouth 
quivered  slightly. 

“ ‘ They ’d  better  get  the  hatches  open,  and  heave  over 
that  tobacco,’  said  the  mate,  endeavoring  to  obtain  an 
answer. 

“‘She’s  hauled  down  her  signal  for  us  to  lie-to,’ 
observed  the  skipper;  ‘and  see  there,  her  bow  ports  are 
open.  Here  it  comes!’ 

“ A bright  flash  burst  out  as  he  spoke,  and  one  blended 
report  was  heard,  as  the  shots  skimmed  the  sea  beside  us. 

“‘  Run  that  long  gun  aft, ’cried  the  old  fellow,  as  his  eyes 
flashed  and  his  color  mounted.  ‘ I ’ll  rake  their  after-deck 
for  them,  or  I’m  mistaken.’ 

“For  the  first  time  the  command  was  not  obeyed  at  once. 
The  men  looked  at  each  other  in  hesitation,  and  as  if  not 
determined  what  part  to  take. 

“‘  What  do  you  stare  at  there?’  cried  he,  in  a voice  of 
passion.  ‘ O’Kelly,  up  with  the  old  bunting,  and  let  them 
see  who  they  ’ve  got  to  deal  with.’ 

“ A brown  flag,  with  a Dutch  lion  in  the  centre,  was  run 
up  the  signal-halliards,  and  the  next  minute  floated  out 
bravely  from  our  gaff. 

“A  cheer  burst  from  the  man-o’-war’s  crew,  as  they 
beheld  the  signal  of  defiance.  Its  answer  was  a smashing 
discharge  from  our  long  swivel  that  tore  along  their  decks, 
cutting  the  standing  rigging,  and  wounding  several  as  it 
went.  The  triumph  was  short-lived  for  us.  Shot  after 


78 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


shot  poured  in  from  the  brig,  which,  already  to  windward, 
swept  our  entire  decks ; while  an  incessant  roll  of  small- 
arms  showed  that  our  challenge  was  accepted  to  the 
death. 

“‘Down  helm!’  said  the  old  man  in  a whisper  to  the 
sailor  at  the  wheel, — ‘down  helm!’  while  already  the 
spitting  waves  that  danced  half  a mile  ahead  betokened 
a reef  of  rocks,  over  which  at  low  water  a row-boat  could 
not  float. 

“ ‘ I know  it,  I know  it  well,  ’ was  the  skipper’s  reply  to 
the  muttered  answer  of  the  helmsman. 

“By  this  time  the  brig  was  slackening  sail,  and  still 
her  fire  was  maintained  as  hotly  as  ever.  The  distance 
between  us  increased  at  each  moment,  and  had  we  sea- 
room,  it  was  possible  for  us  yet  to  escape. 

“Our  long  gun  was  worked  without  ceasing,  and  we 
could  see  from  time  to  time  that  a bustle  on  the  deck 
denoted  the  destruction  it  was  dealing.  Suddenly  a wild 
shout  burst  from  one  of  our  men:  ‘The  man-o’-war’s 
aground ! her  topsails  are  aback ! ’ A mad  cheer  — the 
frantic  cry  of  rage  and  desperation  — broke  from  us; 
when,  at  the  instant,  a reeling  shock  shook  us  from 
stem  to  stern.  The  little  vessel  trembled  like  a living 
thing;  and  then,  with  a crash  like  thunder,  the  hatchways 
sprang  from  their  fastenings,  and  the  white  sea  leaped  up 
and  swept  along  the  deck.  One  drowning  cry,  one  last 
mad  yell  burst  forth. 

“ ‘ Three  cheers,  my  boys ! ’ cried  the  skipper,  raising 
his  cap  above  his  head. 

“Already  she  was  settling  in  the  sea;  the  death-notes 
rang  out  high  over  the  storm ; a wave  swept  me  overboard 
at  the  minute,  and  I saw  the  old  skipper  clinging  to  the 
bowsprit,  while  his  long  gray  hair  was  floating  wildly 
behind;  but  the  swooping  sea  rolled  over  and  over  me. 
A kind  of  despairing  energy  nerved  me,  and  after  being 
above  an  hour  in  the  water,  I was  taken  up,  still  swim- 
ming, by  one  of  the  shore-boats,  which,  as  the  storm  abated, 
had  ventured  out  to  the  assistance  of  the  sloop;  and  thus 
was  I shipwrecked  within  a few  hundred  yards  of  the  spot 
where  first  I had  ventured  on  the  sea,  being  the  only  one 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


79 


saved  of  all  the  crew.  Of  the  ‘ Dart,  ’ not  a spar  reached 
shore;  the  breaking  sea  tore  her  to  atoms. 

“ The  ‘ Hornet  ’ scarcely  fared  better.  She  landed  eight 
of  her  crew,  badly  wounded;  one  man  was  killed;  and  she 
herself  was  floated  only  after  months  of  labor,  and  never, 
I believe,  went  to  sea  afterwards. 

“The  sympathy  which  in  Ireland  is  never  refused  to 
misfortune,  no  matter  how  incurred,  stood  me  in  stead 
now;  for  although  every  effort  was  made  by  the  author- 
ities to  discover  if  any  of  the  smuggler’s  crew  had  reached 
shore  alive,  and  large  rewards  were  offered,  no  one  would 
betray  me;  and  I lay  as  safely  concealed  beneath  the 
thatch  of  an  humble  cabin  as  though  the  proud  walls  of 
a baronial  castle  afforded  me  their  protection.  From  day 
to  day  I used  to  hear  of  the  hot  and  eager  inquiry  going 
forward  to  trace  out,  by  any  means,  something  of  the 
wrecked  vessel ; and  at  last  news  reached  me  that  a cele- 
brated thief -taker  from  Dublin  had  arrived  in  the  neigh- 
borhood to  assist  in  the  search. 

“There  was  no  time  to  be  lost  now.  Discovery  would 
not  only  have  perilled  my  own  life,  but  also  have  involved 
those  of  my  kind  protectors.  How  to  leave  the  village 
was,  however,  the  difficulty.  Revenue  and  man-of-war 
boats  abounded  on  the  Shannon  since  the  day  of  the 
wreck;  the  Ennis  road  was  beset  by  police,  who  scruti- 
nized every  traveller  that  passed  on  the  west  coast.  The 
alarm  was  sounded,  and  no  chance  of  escape  presented 
itself  in  that  quarter.  In  this  dilemma,  fortune,  which 
so  often  stood  my  friend,  did  not  desert  me.  It  chanced 
that  a strolling  company  of  actors,  who  had  been  perform- 
ing for  some  weeks  past  in  Kilrush,  were  about  to  set  off 
to  Ennistymon,  where  they  were  to  give  several  represen- 
tations. Nothing  could  be  easier  than  to  avoid  detection 
in  such  company;  and  I soon  managed  to  be  included  in 
the  corps,  by  accepting  an  engagement  as  a ‘ walking  gen- 
tleman ’ at  a low  salary,  and  on  the  next  morning  found 
myself  seated  on  the  van,  among  a very  motley  crew  of 
associates,  in  whose  ways  and  habits  I very  soon  contrived 
to  familiarize  myself,  becoming,  before  we  had  gone  many 
miles,  somewhat  of  a favorite  in  the  party. 


80 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ I will  not  weary  you  with  any  account  of  nay  strolling 
life.  Every  one  knows  something  of  the  difficulties  which 
beset  the  humble  drama;  and  ours  was  of  the  humblest. 
Joe  Hume  himself  could  not  have  questioned  one  solitary 
item  in  our  budget;  and  I defy  the  veriest  quibbler  on  a 
grand  jury  to  ‘ traverse  ’ a spangle  on  a pair  of  our  theatri- 
cal small-clothes. 

“Our  scenes  were  two  in  number.  One  represented  a 
cottage  interior,  — pots,  kettles,  a dresser,  and  a large  fire 
being  depicted  in  smoke-colored  traits  thereon;  this,  with 
two  chairs  and  a table,  was  convertible  into  a parlor  in  a 
private  house ; and  again,  by  a red-covered  arm-chair  and 
an  old  banner,  became  a baronial  hall  or  the  saloon  in  a 
palace.  The  second  represented  two  houses  on  the  fiat, 
with  an  open  country  between  them,  a mill,  a mountain,  a 
stream,  and  a rustic  bridge  inclusive.  This,  then,  was 
either  a street  in  a town,  a wood,  a garden,  or  any  other 
out-of-door  place  of  resort  for  light-comedy  people,  lov- 
ers, passionate  fathers,  waiting-maids,  robbers,  or  chorus 
singers. 

“The  chiefs  of  our  corps  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  M’Elwain, 
who,  as  their  names  bespoke,  came  from  the  north  of  Ire- 
land, — somewhere  near  Coleraine  I fancy,  but  cannot  pre- 
tend to  accuracy ; but  I know  it  was  on  the  borders  of  Darry. 

“Who,  or  what,  had  ever  induced  a pair  of  as  common- 
place, matter-of-fact  folk  as  ever  lived  to  take  to  the 
Thespian  art,  Heaven  can  tell.  Had  Mr.  Mac  been  a 
bailiff,  and  Madam  a green-groceress,  Nature  would  seem  to 
have  dealt  fairly  with  them,  — he  being  a stout,  red-faced, 
black-bearded  tyke,  with  a thatch  of  straight  black  hair 
cut  in  semicircles  over  his  ears  so  as  to  permit  character- 
wigs  without  inconvenience,  heavy  in  step,  and  plodding 
in  gait;  she,  a tall,  raw-boned  woman,  of  some  five-and- 
forty,  with  piercing  gray  eyes,  and  a shrill  harsh  voice, 
that  would  have  shamed  the  veriest  whistle  that  ever 
piped  through  a keyhole.  Such  were  the  Macbeth  and 
the  Lady  Macbeth,  the  Ilomeo  and  Juliet,  the  Hamlet  and 
Ophelia  of  the  company;  but  their  appearance  was  a trifle 
to  the  maimer  and  deportment  of  their  style.  Imagine 
Juliet  with  a tattered  Leghorn  bonnet,  a Scotch  shawl, 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


81 


and  a pair  of  brown  boots,  declaiming  somewhat  in  this 
guise : — 

“ * Come,  gantle  night,  come,  loving  black-browed  night, 

Gie  me  my  Romo  ! and  when  he  shall  dee, 

Tak’  him,  and  cut  him  into  leetle  stars, 

And  he  will  mak'  the  face  of  heaven  sue  fine, 

That  a’  the  warld  will  be  in  lo’e  with  him.’ 

“With  these  people  I was  not  destined  long  to  continue. 
The  splendid  delusion  of  success  was  soon  dispelled;  and 
the  golden  harvest  I was  to  reap  settled  down  into  some- 
thing like  four  shillings  a week, — out  of  which  came 
stoppages  of  so  many  kinds  and  shapes  that  my  salary 
might  have  been  refused  at  any  moment,  under  the  plea 
that  there  was  no  coin  of  the  realm  in  which  to  pay  it. 

“One  by  one  every  article  of  my  wardrobe  went  to 
supply  the  wants  of  my  stomach;  and  1 remember  well 
my  great-coat,  preserved  with  the  tenacity  with  which  a 
shipwrecked  mariner  hoards  up  his  last  biscuit,  was  con- 
verted into  mutton  to  regale  Messrs.  Iago,  Mercutio,  and 
Cassius,  with  Mesdames  Ophelia,  Jessica,  Desdemona,  and 
Co.  It  would  make  the  fortune  of  an  artist  could  he  only 
have  witnessed  the  preparations  for  our  entertainment. 

“The  festival  was  in  honor  of  what  the  manager  was 
pleased  by  a singular  figure  of  speech  to  call  my  ‘ benefit,  ’ 
— the  only  profit  accruing  to  me  from  the  aforesaid  ‘ ben- 
efit ’ being  any  satisfaction  I might  feel  in  seeing  my  name 
in  capitals,  and  the  pleasure  of  waiting  on  the  enlightened 
inhabitants  of  Kilrush  to  solicit  their  patronage. 

“There  was  something  to  me  of  indescribable  melan- 
choly in  that  morning’s  perambulation,  for  independent  of 
the  fact  that  I was  threatened  by  one  with  the  stocks  as 
a vagabond,  another  set  a policeman  to  dog  me  as  a suspi- 
cious character,  a third  mistook  me  for  a rat-catcher,  and 
the  butcher,  with  whom  I negotiated  for  the  quarter  of 
mutton,  came  gravely  up,  and  examined  the  texture  of  my 
raiment,  calling  in  a jury  of  his  friends  to  decide  if  he 
wasn’t  making  a bad  bargain. 

“Night  came,  and  I saw  myself  dressed  for  Petruchio, 
the  character  in  which  I was  to  bring  down  thunders  of 
applause,  and  fill  the  treasury  to  overflowing.  What  a 

6 


82 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


conflict  of  feelings  was  mine,  — now  rating  Katharina  in 
good  round  phrase  before  the  audience,  now  slipping 
behind  the  flats  to  witness  the  progress  of  the  cuisine, 
for  which  I longed  with  the  appetite  of  starvation!  How 
the  potatoes  split  their  jackets  with  laughing,  as  they 
bubbled  up  and  down  in  the  helmet  of  Coriolanus,  for 
such  I grieve  to  say  was  the  vessel  used  on  the  occasion! 
The  roasting  mutton  was  presided  over  by  ‘ a gentleman 
of  Padua,  ’ and  Christopher  Sly  was  employed  in  concoct- 
ing some  punch,  which,  true  to  his  name,  he  tasted  so 
frequently  it  was  impossible  to  awake  him  towards  the 
last  act. 

“It  was  in  the  first  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  in  which, 
with  the  feelings  of  a famished  wolf,  I was  obliged  to 
assist  at  a mock  supper  on  the  stage,  with  wooden  beef, 
parchment  fowls,  wax  pomegranates,  and  gilt  goblets,  in 
which  only  the  air  prevented  a vacuum;  just  as  I came  and 
to  the  passage,  — 

‘ Come,  Kate,  sit  down  ! I know  you  have  a stomach. 

Will  you  give  thanks,  sweet  Kate,  or  else  shall  I ? 

What  is  this,  — mutton  ? ’ 

At  that  very  moment,  as  I flung  the  ‘ pine  saddle  ’ from 
one  end  of  the  stage  to  the  other,  a savory  odor  reached 
my  nose;  the  clatter  of  knives,  the  crash  of  plates,  the 
sounds  of  laughter  and  merriment,  fell  upon  my  ears. 
The  wretches  were  at  supper!  Even  the  ‘first  servant,’ 
who  should  have  responded  to  my  wrath,  bolted  from  the 
stage  like  a shot,  leaving  his  place  without  a moment’s 
warning;  and  ‘ Katharina,  the  sweetest  Kate  in  Christen- 
dom, my  dainty  Kate,’  assured  me,  with  her  mouth  full, 
‘ the  meat  was  well,  if  I were  so  contented.’  Determined 
to  satisfy  myself  on  the  point,  regardless  of  everything 
but  my  hunger  I rushed  off  the  stage,  and  descended  like 
a vulture  in  the  midst  of  the  supper-party.  Threats, 
denunciations,  entreaties,  were  of  no  use,  — I would  n’t 
go  back;  and  let  the  house  storm  and  rage,  I had  helped 
myself  to  a slice  of  the  joint,  and  cared  for  nobody.  It 
was  in  vain  they  told  me  that  the  revenue  officer  and  his 
family  were  outrageous  with  passion;  and  as  to  the  apoth- 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


83 


ecary  in  the  stage  box,  he  had  paid  for  six  tickets  in 
‘senna  mixture;  ’ but  Heaven  knows  I wasn’t  a case  for 
such  a regimen. 

“All  persuasions  failing,  Mr.  M’ El  wain,  armed  all  in 
proof,  rushed  at  me  with  a tin  scimitar;  while  Madame, 
more  violent  still,  capsized  the  helmet  and  its  scalding 
contents  over  my  person,  and  nearly  flayed  me  alive.  With 
frantic  energy  I seized  the  joint,  and  fighting  my  way 
through  the  whole  company,  rushed  from  the  spot.  ‘ Ho- 
mans,’ ‘countrymen,’  and  ‘lovers,’  ‘dukes,’  ‘duennas,’ 
‘demigods,’  and  ‘dancers,’  with  a loud  yell,  joined  in  the 
pursuit.  Across  the  stage  we  went,  amid  an  uproar  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  Pandemonium.  I was  ‘ nim- 
blest of  foot,  ’ however,  and  having  forced  my  way  through 
an  ‘ impracticable  ’ door,  I jumped  clean  through  the  wood ; 
and  having  tripped  up  an  ‘ angel  ’ that  was  close  on  my 
heels,  I seized  a candle,  ‘ thirty-six  to  the  pound,  ’ and 
applying  it  to  the  edge  of  the  kitchen  afore  mentioned, 
bounded  madly  on,  leaving  the  whole  concern  wrapped  in 
flames.  Down  the  street  I went  as  if  bloodhounds  were 
behind  me,  and  never  stopped  my  wild  career  until  I 
reached  a little  eminence  at  the  end  of  the  town;  then  I 
drew  my  breath,  and  turned  one  last  look  upon  the  Theatre 
Royal.  It  was  a glorious  spectacle  to  a revengeful  spirit. 
Amid  the  volume  of  flame  and  smoke  that  rose  to  heaven 
(for  the  entire  building  was  now  enveloped)  might  be  seen 
the  discordant  mass  of  actors  and  audience  mixed  up 
madly  together.  Turks,  tailors,  tumblers  and  tide-waiters, 
grandees  and  grocers,  imps  and  innkeepers,  — there  they 
were,  all  screaming  in  concert,  while  the  light  material  of 
the  property-room  was  ascending  in  myriads  of  sparks. 
Castles  and  forests,  baronial  halls  and  robbers’  caves,  were 
mounting  to  mid-heaven  amid  the  flash  of  blue-lights  and 
the  report  of  stage  combustibles. 

“You  may  be  sure,  that,  however  gratifying  to  my 
feelings  this  last  scene  of  the  drama  was,  I did  not  per- 
mit myself  much  leisui-e  to  contemplate  it, — a very  pal- 
pable conviction  staring  me  full  in  the  face  that  such  a 
spectacle  might  not  exactly  redound  to  my  ‘ benefit.  ’ I 
therefore  addressed  myself  to  the  road,  moralizing  as  I 


84 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


went  somewhat  in  this  fashion : I have  lost  a respectable 
but  homely  suit  of  apparel,  and,  instead,  I have  acquired 
a green  doublet,  leathern  hose,  jack-boots,  a slouched  hat, 
and  a feather.  Had  I played  out  my  part,  by  this  time  I 
should  have  been  strewing  the  stage  with  a mock  supper. 
ISiow  I was  consoling  my  feelings  with  real  mutton,  which, 
however  wanting  its  ordinary  accompaniments,  was  a deli- 
cacy of  no  common  order  to  me.  I had  not,  it  is  true,  the 
vociferous  applause  of  a delighted  audience  to  aid  my  diges- 
tion as  Petruchio;  but  the  pleasant  whisper  of  a good  con- 
science was  a more  flattering  reward  to  Con  O’Kelly.  This 
balanced  the  account  in  my  favor,  and  I stepped  out  with 
that  light  heart  which  is  so  unequivocal  an  evidence  of  an 
innocent  and  happy  disposition. 

“Towards  daybreak  I had  advanced  some  miles  on  the 
road  to  Killaloe,  when  before  me  I perceived  a drove  of 
horses,  coupled  together  with  all  manner  of  strange  tackle, 
halters,  and  hay-ropes.  Two  or  three  country  lads  were 
mounted  among  them,  endeavoring,  as  well  as  they  were 
able,  to  keep  them  quiet;  while  a thick,  short,  red-faced 
fellow,  in  dirty  ‘ tops  ’ and  a faded  green  frock,  led  the 
way,  and  seemed  to  preside  over  the  procession.  As  I 
drew  near,  my  appearance  caused  no  common  commotion. 
The  drivers,  fixing  their  eyes  on  me,  could  mind  nothing 
else;  the  cattle,  participating  in  the  sentiments,  started, 
capered,  plunged,  and  neighed  fearfully;  while  the  leader 
of  the  corps,  furious  at  the  disorder  he  witnessed,  swore 
like  a trooper,  as  with  a tremendous  cutting  whip  he 
dashed  here  and  there  through  the  crowd,  slashing  men 
and  horses  with  a most  praiseworthy  impartiality.  At  last 
his  eyes  fell  upon  me,  and  for  a moment  I was  full  sure 
my  fate  was  sealed,  as  he  gripped  his  saddle  closer,  tight- 
ened his  curb  rein,  and  grasped  his  powerful  whip  with 
redoubled  energy. 

“The  instincts  of  an  art  are  very  powerful;  for  seeing 
the  attitxide  of  the  man,  and  beholding  the  savage  expres- 
sion of  his  features,  I threw  myself  into  a stage  position, 
slapped  down  my  beaver  with  one  hand,  and  drawing  my 
sword  with  the  other,  called  out  in  a rich  melodramatic 
howl,  ‘ Come  on,  Macduff!  ’ My  look,  my  gesture,  my 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


85 


costume,  and  above  all  my  voice  convinced  my  antagonist 
that  I was  insane, and  as  quickly  the  hard  unfeeling  char- 
acter of  his  face  relaxed,  and  an  expression  of  rude  pity 
passed  across  it. 

’T is  Billy  Muldoon,  sir,  I’m  sure,’  cried  one  of  the 
boys,  as  with  difficulty  he  sat  the  plunging  beast  under  him. 

“‘  No,  sir,’  shouted  another,  ‘ he ’s  bigger  nor  Billy;  but 
he  has  a look  of  Hogan  about  the  eyes.’ 

“ ‘ Hould  your  prate ! ’ cried  the  master.  ‘ Sure  Hogan 
was  hanged  at  the  summer  assizes.’ 

“‘I  know  he  was,  sir,’  was  the  answer,  given  as  coolly 
as  though  no  contradiction  arose  on  that  score. 

“‘  Who  are  you?  ’ cried  the  leader;  ‘ where  do  you  come 
from?  ’ 

“‘From  Ephesus,  my  lord,’  said  I,  bowing  with  stage 
solemnity,  and  replacing  my  sword  within  my  scabbard. 

Where?  ’ shouted  he,  with  his  hand  to  his  ear. 

“‘  From  Ivilrush,  most  potent,’  replied  I,  approaching 
near  enough  to  converse  without  being  overheard  by  the 
others;  while  in  a few  words  I explained,  that  my  costume 
and  appearance  were  only  professional  symbols,  which  a 
hasty  departure  from  my  friends  prevented  my  changing. 

“‘And  where  are  you  going  now?  ’ was  the  next  query. 

“‘  May  I ask  you  the  same?  ’ said  I. 

“‘Me?  Why,  I’m  for  Killaloe, — for  the  Fair  to- 
morrow.’ 

“‘  That ’s  exactly  my  destination,’  said  I. 

“‘And  how  do  you  mean  to  go?’  retorted  he.  ‘It’s 
forty  miles  from  here.’ 

“‘I  have  a notion,’  replied  I,  ‘that  the  dark  chestnut 
there,  with  the  white  fetlock,  will  have  the  honor  of  con- 
veying me.’ 

“A  very  peculiar  grin,  which  I did  not  half  admire,  was 
the  reply  to  this  speech. 

“ ‘ There ’s  many  a one  I would  n’t  take  under  five  shil- 
lings from,  for  the  day,’  said  I;  ‘but  the  times  are  bad, 
and  somehow  I like  the  look  of  you.  Is  it  a bargain?’ 

Faix,  I ’m  half  inclined  to  let  you  try  the  same  horse,’ 
said  he.  ‘ It  would  be  teaching  you  something,  any  how. 
Hid  ye  ever  hear  of  the  Playboy?  ’ 


86 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


To  be  sure  I did.  Is  that  he?  ’ 

“He  nodded. 

“ ‘ And  you  ’re  Dan  Moone?  ’ said  I. 

“ ‘ The  same,  ’ cried  he,  in  astonishment. 

“ ‘ Come,  Dan,  turn  about ’s  fair  play.  I ’ll  ride  the 
horse  for  you  to-morrow,  where  you  like,  and  over  what 
you  like;  and,  in  reward,  you’ll  let  me  mount  one  of  the 
others  as  far  as  Killaloe.  We  ’ll  dine  together  at  the  cross 
roads.’  Here  I slipped  the  mutton  from  under  the  tail  of 
my  coat.  ‘ Do  you  say  done?  ’ 

“ ‘ Get  upon  the  gray  pony,’  was  the  short  rejoinder;  and 
the  next  moment  I was  seated  on  the  back  of  as  likely  a 
eob  as  I ever  bestrode. 

“My  first  care  was  to  make  myself  master  of  my  com- 
panion’s character,  which  I did  in  a very  short  time  while 
affecting  to  disclose  my  own,  watching,  with  sharp  eye, 
how  each  portion  of  my  history  told  upon  him.  I saw 
that  he  appreciated,  with  a true  horse-dealer’s  ‘ onction,  ’ 
anything  that  smacked  of  trick  or  stratagem;  in  fact,  he 
looked  upon  all  mankind  as  so  many  ‘ screws,  ’ he  being  the 
cleverest  fellow  who  could  detect  their  imperfections  and 
unveil  their  unsoundness.  In  proportion  as  I recounted  to 
him  the  pranks  and  rogueries  of  my  boyish  life,  his  esteem 
for  me  rose  higher  and  higher;  and  before  the  day  was 
over  I had  won  so  much  of  his  confidence  that  he  told  me 
the  peculiar  vice  and  iniquity  of  every  horse  he  had,  de- 
scribing with  great  satisfaction  the  class  of  purchasers  he 
had  determined  to  meet  with. 

There  is  little  Paul  there,’  said  he,  ‘ that  brown  cob 
with  the  cropped  ears,  there  isn’t  such  a trotter  in  Ireland; 
but  somehow,  though  you  can  see  his  knees  from  the  saddle 
when  he ’s  moving,  he  ’ll  come  slap  down  with  you,  as  if 
he  was  shot,  the  moment  you  touch  his  flank  with  the  spur; 
and  then  there ’s  no  getting  him  up  again  till  you  brush 
his  ear  with  the  whip, — the  least  thing  does  it, — when 
he ’s  on  his  legs  in  a minute,  and  not  a bit  the  worse  of 
his  performance.’ 

“ Among  all  the  narratives  he  told,  this  made  the  deepest 
impression  on  me.  That  the  animal  had  been  taught  the 
accomplishment  there  could  be  no  doubt;  and  I began  to 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


87 


puzzle  my  brain  in  what  way  it  might  best  be  turned  to 
advantage.  It  was  of  great  consequence  to  me  to  impress 
my  friend  at  once  with  a high  notion  of  my  powers;  and 
here  was  an  admirable  occasion  for  their  exercise,  if  I 
could  only  hit  on  a plan. 

“The  conversation  turned  on  various  subjects,  and  at 
last,  as  we  neared  Killaloe,  my  companion  began  to  ponder 
over  the  most  probable  mode  in  which  I could  be  of  service 
to  him  on  the  following  day.  It  was  at  last  agreed  upon, 
that,  on  reaching  town,  I should  exchange  my  Petruchio 
costume  for  that  of  a ‘squireen,’  or  half -gentleman,  and 
repair  to  the  ordinary  at  the  Green  Man,  where  nearly  all 
the  buyers  put  up  and  all  the  talk  on  sporting  matters  went 
forward.  This  suited  me  perfectly;  I was  delighted  to  per- 
form a new  part,  particularly  when  the  filling-up  was  left 
to  my  own  discretion.  Before  an  hour  elapsed  after  our 
arrival,  I saw  myself  attired  in  a very  imposing  suit,  — 
blue  coat,  cords  and  tops,  — that  would  have  fitted  me  for 
a very  high  range  of  character  in  my  late  profession. 
O’Kelly  was  a name,  as  Pistol  says,  ‘ of  good  report,’  and 
there  was  no  need  to  change  it;  so  I took  my  place  at  the 
supper-table  among  some  forty  others,  comprising  a very 
fair  average  of  the  raffs  and  raps  of  the  county.  The 
mysteries  of  horse-flesh  were,  of  course,  the  only  subject 
of  conversation;  and  before  the  punch  made  its  appear- 
ance, I astonished  the  company  by  the  extent  of  my  infor- 
mation and  the  acuteness  of  my  remarks.  I improvised 
steeple-chases  over  impossible  countries,  invented  pedi- 
grees for  horses  yet  unfoaled,  and  threw  out  such  a fund 
of  anecdote  about  the  turf  and  the  chase  that  I silenced  the 
old-established  authorities  of  the  place,  and  a general  buzz 
went  round  the  table  of,  ‘ Who  can  he  be  at  all?  WTliere 
did  he  come  from?’ 

“As  the  evening  wore  apace,  my  eloquence  grew  warm. 
I described  my  stud  and  my  kennel,  told  some  very  curious 
instances  of  my  hunting  experience;  and  when  at  last  a 
member  of  the  party,  piqued  at  my  monopoly  of  the  con- 
versation, endeavored  to  turn  my  flank  by  an  allusion  to 
grouse-shooting,  I stopped  him  at  once,  by  asserting  with 
vehemence  that  no  man  deserved  the  name  of  sportsman 


88 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


who  shot  over  dogs.  A sudden  silence  pervaded  the  com- 
pany, while  the  last  speaker  turned  towards  me  with  a 
malicious  grin,  begging  to  know  how  I bagged  my  game, 
for  that  in  his  county  they  were  ignorant  enough  to  follow 
the  old  method. 

“With  a pony,  of  course,’  said  I,  finishing  my  glass. 

“‘A  pony!’  cried  one  after  the  other;  ‘how  do  you 
mean?  ’ 

“ ‘ Why,  ’ resumed  I,  ‘ that  I have  a pony  who  sets  every 
species  of  game  as  true  as  the  best  pointer  that  ever 
“stopped.”  ’ 

“A  hearty  roar  of  laughter  followed  this  declaration, 
and  a less  courageous  spirit  than  mine  would  have  feared 
that  all  his  acquired  popularity  was  in  danger. 

“‘You  have  him  with  you,  I suppose,’  said  a sly  old 
fellow  from  the  end  of  the  table. 

“‘  Yes,’  said  I,  carelessly;  ‘ I brought  him  over  here  to 
take  a couple  of  days’  shooting,  if  there  is  any  to  be  had.’ 

“‘  You  would  have  no  objection,’  said  another,  insinuat- 
ingly, ‘to  let  us  look  at  the  beast?  ’ 

“‘  Not  the  least,’  said  I. 

“ ‘ Maybe  you  ’d  take  a bet  on  it,  ’ said  a third. 

“‘I  fear  I couldn’t,’  said  I;  ‘the  thing  is  too  sure, — 
the  wager  would  be  an  unfair  one.  ’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  as  to  that,  ’ cried  three  or  four  together,  ‘ we  ’ll 
take  our  chance ; for  even  if  we  were  to  lose,  it ’s  well 
worth  paying  for.’ 

“The  more  I expressed  my  dislike  to  bet,  the  more 
warmly  they  pressed  me;  and  I could  perceive  that  a 
general  impression  was  spreading  that  my  pony  was  about 
as  apocryphal  as  many  of  my  previous  stories. 

“‘  Ten  pounds  with  you,  he  doesn’t  do  it,’  said  an  old 
hard-featured  squire. 

“ ‘ The  same  from  me,  ’ cried  another. 

“ ‘ Two  to  one  in  fifties,  ’ shouted  a third,  until  every 
man  at  table  had  proffered  his  wager,  and  I gravely 
called  for  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  booked  them,  with  all 
due  form. 

“‘Now,  when  is  it  to  come  off?’  was  the  question  of 
some  half-dozen. 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


89 


Now,  if  you  like  it;  the  night  seems  fine.’ 

“ ‘ No,  no,  ’ said  they,  laughing,  ‘ there  ’s  no  such  hurry 
as  that.  To-morrow  we  are  going  to  draw  Westenra’s 
cover;  what  do  you  say  if  you  meet  us  there  by  eight 
o’clock,  and  we  ’ll  decide  the  bet?  ’ 

“ ‘Agreed,’  said  I,  and  shaking  hands  with  the  whole 
party,  I folded  up  my  paper,  placed  it  in  my  pocket,  and 
wished  them  good-night. 

“Sleep  was,  however,  the  last  thing  in  my  thoughts. 
Repairing  to  the  little  public-house  where  I left  my  friend 
Dan,  I asked  him  if  he  knew  any  one  well  acquainted  with 
the  country,  and  who  could  tell  at  a moment  where  a hare 
or  a covey  was  to  be  found. 

“ ‘ To  be  sure,  ’ said  he  at  once ; ‘ there ’s  a boy  below 
knows  every  puss  and  every  bird  in  the  country.  Tim 
Daly  would  bring  you,  dark  as  the  night  is,  to  the  very 
spot  where  you’d  find  one.’ 

“In  a few  minutes  I had  made  Mr.  Tim’s  acquaint- 
ance, and  arranged  with  him  to  meet  me  at  the  cover  on 
the  following  morning,  — a code  of  signals  being  estab- 
lished between  us,  by  which  he  was  to  convey  to  me  the 
information  of  where  a hare  was  lying,  or  a covey  to  be 
sprung. 

“ A little  before  eight  I was  standing  beside  Paul  on  the 
appointed  spot,  the  centre  of  an  admiring  circle,  who, 
whatever  their  misgivings  as  to  his  boasted  skill,  had 
only  one  opinion  about  his  shapes  and  qualities. 

“ ‘ Splendid  forehand ! ’ ‘ what  legs ! ’ * look  at  his  quar- 
ters ! ’ ‘ and  so  deep  in  the  heart ! ’ — were  the  exclamations 
heard  on  every  side,  till  a rosy-cheeked,  fat  little  fellow, 
growing  impatient  at  the  delay,  cried  out,  — 

“‘Come,  Mr.  O’Kelly,  mount,  if  you  please,  and  come 
along.  ’ 

“ I tightened  my  girth,  and  sprang  into  the  saddle,  — my 
only  care  being  to  keep  my  toes  in  as  straight  a line  as  I 
could  with  my  feet.  Before  we  proceeded  half  a mile  1 
saw  Tim  seated  on  a stile,  scratching  his  head  in  a very 
knowing  manner;  upon  which  I rode  out  from  the  party, 
and  looking  intently  at  the  furze  cover  in  front,  called 
out,  — 


90 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“‘Keep  back  the  clogs  there!  call  them  off!  Hush,  not 
a word ! ’ 

“ The  hounds  were  called  in,  the  party  reined  back  their 
horses,  and  all  sat  silent  spectators  of  my  movements. 

“When  suddenly  I touched  Paul  in  both  flanks;  down 
he  dropped,  like  a parish  clerk,  stiff  and  motionless  as  a 
statue. 

“‘  What ’s  that?  ’ cried  two  or  three  behind. 

“‘  He ’s  setting,’  said  I,  in  a whisper. 

“‘  What  is  it,  though?’  said  one. 

“‘A  hare!  ’ said  I,  and  at  the  same  instant  I shouted  to 
lay  on  the  dogs,  and  tipping  Paul’s  ears,  forward  I went. 
Out  bolted  puss,  and  away  we  started  across  the  country, 
I leading,  and  taking  all  before  me. 

“ We  killed  in  half  an  hour,  and  found  ourselves  not  far 
from  the  first  cover,  — my  friend  Tim,  being  as  before  in 
advance,  making  the  same  signal  as  at  first.  The  same 
performance  was  now  repeated.  Paul  went  through  his 
part  to  perfection ; and  notwithstanding  the  losses,  a gen- 
eral cheer  saluted  us  as  we  sprang  to  our  legs  and  dashed 
after  the  dogs. 

“Of  course  I didn’t  spare  him.  Everything  now  de- 
pended on  my  sustaining  our  united  fame;  and  there  was 
nothing  too  high,  or  too  wide  for  me  that  morning. 

“‘What  will  you  take  for  him,  Mr.  O’Kelly?’  was  the 
question  of  each  man,  as  he  came  up  to  the  last  field. 

“‘  Would  you  like  any  other  proof?’  said  I.  ‘Is  any 
gentleman  dissatisfied  ? ’ 

“A  general  ‘ No’  was  the  answer;  and  again  the  offers 
were  received  from  every  quarter,  while  they  produced  the 
bank-notes,  and  settled  their  bets.  It  was  no  part  of  my 
game,  however,  to  sell  him;  the  trick  might  be  discovered 
before  1 left  the  country,  and  if  so,  there  wouldn’t  be  a 
whole  bone  remaining  in  my  skin. 

“My  refusal  evidently  heightened  both  my  value  and 
his,  and  I sincerely  believe  there  was  no  story  I could  tell 
on  our  ride  back  to  town  which  would  not  have  met 
credence  that  morning;  and,  indeed,  to  do  myself  justice, 
I tried  my  popularity  to  its  utmost. 

“By  way  of  a short  cut  back,  as  the  Fair  was  to  begin 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


91 


at  noon,  we  took  a different  route,  which  led  across  some 
grass  fields  and  a small  river.  In  traversing  this  I unfor- 
tunately was  in  the  middle  of  some  miraculous  anecdote, 
and  entirely  forgot  my  pony  and  his  requirements;  and  as 
he  stopped  to  drink,  without  thinking  of  what  I was  doing, 
with  the  common  instinct  of  a rider  I touched  him  with  the 
spur.  Scarcely  had  the  rowel  reached  his  side  when  down 
he  fell,  sending  me  head-foremost  over  his  neck  into  the 
water.  For  a second  or  two  the  strength  of  the  current 
carried  me  along,  and  it  was  only  after  a devil  of  a scram- 
ble that  I gained  my  legs  and  reached  the  bank,  wet  through 
and  heartily  ashamed  of  myself. 

“‘Eh,  O’Kelly,  what  the  deuce  was  that?’  cried  one  of 
the  party,  as  a roar  of  laughter  broke  from  amongst 
them. 

“‘Ah!  ’ said  I,  mournfully,  ‘ I wasn’t  quick  enough.’ 

“ ‘ Quick  enough ! ’ cried  they.  ‘ Egad,  I never  saw  any- 
thing like  it.  Why,  man,  you  were  shot  off  like  an  arrow!  ’ 
“ ‘ Leaped  off,  if  you  please,  ’ said  I,  with  an  air  of 
offended  dignity,  — ‘ leaped  off!  Did  n’t  you  see  it?  ’ 

“‘  See  what?  ’ 

“‘The  salmon,  to  be  sure!  A twelve-pounder,  as  sure 
as  my  name’s  O’Kelly!  He  “set”  it.’ 

“ ‘ Set  a salmon ! ’ shouted  twenty  voices  in  a breath. 
‘The  thing’s  impossible.’ 

“‘  Would  you  like  a bet  on  it?  ’ asked  I,  dryly. 

“‘No,  no,  damn  it!  no  more  bets!  But  surely  — ’ 

“ ‘ Too  provoking,  after  all,  ’ muttered  I,  ‘ to  have  lost  so 
fine  a fish,  and  got  such  a ducking;  ’ and  with  that  I 
mounted  my  barb,  and,  waving  my  hand,  wished  them 
a good-by,  and  galloped  into  Ivillaloe. 

“This  story  I have  only  related  because,  insignificant  as 
it  was,  it  became  in  a manner  the  pivot  of  my  then  fate  in 
life.  The  jockey  at  once  made  me  an  offer  of  partnership 
in  his  traffic,  displaying  before  me  the  numerous  advan- 
tages of  such  a proposal.  I was  a disengaged  man,  my 
prospects  not  peculiarly  brilliant,  the  state  of  my  ex- 
chequer by  no  means  encouraging  the  favorite  nostrum 
of  a return  to  cash  payments;  and  so  I acceded,  and 
entered  at  once  upon  my  new  profession  with  all  the 


92 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


enthusiasm  I was  always  able  to  command,  no  matter  what 
line  of  life  solicited  my  adoption. 

“But  it’s  near  one  o’clock;  and  so  now,  Mr.  O’Leary, 
if  you ’ve  no  objection,  we  ’ll  have  a grill  and  a glass  of 
Madeira,  and  then,  if  you  can  keep  awake  an  hour  or  so 
longer,  I ’ll  try  and  finish  my  adventures.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

the  smuggler’s  story  (continued). 

“I  left  off  at  that  flattering  portion  of  my  history  where 
I became  a horse-dealer.  In  this  capacity  I travelled  over 
a considerable  portion  of  Ireland,  — now  larking  it  in  the 
west,  jollifying  in  the  south,  and  occasionally  suffering  a 
penance  for  both  enjoyments  by  a stray  trip  to  Ulster.  In 
these  rambles  I contrived  to  make  acquaintance  with  most 
of  the  resident  gentry,  who,  by  the  special  freemasonry 
that  attends  my  calling,  scrupled  not  to  treat  me  on  terms 
of  half  equality,  and  even  to  invite  me  to  their  houses,  — 
a piece  of  condescension  on  their  part,  which  they  well 
knew  was  paid  for  in  more  solid  advantages. 

“In  a word,  Mr.  O’Leary,  I became  a kind  of  moral 
amphibia,  with  powers  to  sustain  life  in  two  distinct  and 
opposite  elements, — now  brushing  my  way  among  frieze- 
coated  farmers,  trainers,  dealers,  sharpers,  and  stable-men; 
now  floating  on  the  surface  of  a politer  world,  where  the 
topics  of  conversation  took  a different  range,  and  were 
couched  in  a very  different  vocabulary. 

“My  knowledge  of  French,  and  my  acquaintance  with 
Parisian  life,  at  least  as  seen  in  that  class  in  which  I used 
to  mix,  added  to  a kind  of  natural  tact,  made  me,  as  far  as 
manners  and  usage  were  concerned,  the  equal  of  those  with 
whom  I associated;  and  I managed  matters  so  well  that 
the  circumstance  of  my  being  seen  in  the  morning  with 
cords  and  tops  of  jockey  cut,  showing  off  a ‘screw,’  or 
extolling  the  symmetry  of  a spavined  hackney,  never 
interfered  with  the  pretensions  I put  forward  at  night, 
when,  dressed  in  a suit  of  accurate  black,  I turned  over 
the  last  new  opera,  or  delivered  a very  scientific  criticism 
on  the  new  ballet  in  London,  or  the  latest  fashion  imported 
from  the  Continent. 

“Were  I to  trace  this  part  of  my  career,  I might  perhaps 
amuse  you  more  by  the  incidents  it  contained  than  by  any 


94 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


other  portion  of  my  life.  Nothing  indeed  is  so  suggestive 
of  adventure  as  that  anomaly  which  the  French  denominate 
so  significantly  ‘ a false  position.’  The  man  who,  — come, 
come,  don’t  be  afraid;  though  that  sounds  very  like  Joseph 
Surface,  I ’in  not  going  to  moralize,  — The  man,  I say,  who 
endeavors  to  sustain  two  distinct  lines  in  life  is  very  likely 
to  fail  in  both,  and  so  I felt  it;  for  while  my  advantages  all 
inclined  to  one  side,  my  taste  and  predilections  leaned  to 
the  other.  I could  never  adopt  knavery  as  a profession : 
as  an  amateur  I gloried  in  it.  Iioguery  without  risk  was  a 
poor  pettifogging  policy  that  I spurned;  but  a practical 
joke  that  involved  life  or  limb,  a hearty  laugh  or  a heavy 
reckoning,  was  a temptation  I never  could  resist.  The 
more  I mixed  in  society,  the  greater  my  intimacy  with 
persons  of  education  and  refinement,  the  stronger  became 
my  repugnance  to  my  actual  condition  and  the  line  of  life 
I had  adopted.  While  my  position  in  society  was  appar- 
ently more  fixed,  I became  in  reality  more  nervously 
anxious  for  its  stability.  The  fascinations  which  in  the 
better  walks  of  life  are  thrown  around  the  man  of  humble 
condition  but  high  aspirings  are  strong  and  sore  tempta- 
tions; while  he  measures  and  finds  himself  not  inferior  to 
others  to  whom  the  race  is  open  and  the  course  is  free,  and 
yet  feels  in  his  own  heart  that  there  is  a bar  upon  his 
escutcheon  which  excludes  him  from  the  lists.  I began 
now  to  experience  this  in  all  its  poignancy.  Among  the 
acquaintances  I had  formed,  one  of  my  most  intimate  was 
a young  baronet,  who  had  just  succeeded  to  a large  estate 
in  the  county  of  Kilkenny.  Sir  Harvey  Blundell  was  an 
Anglo-Irishman  in  more  than  one  sense.  From  his  Eng- 
lish father  he  had  inherited  certain  staid  and  quiet  notions 
of  propriety,  certain  conventional  ideas  regarding  the  ob- 
servance of  etiquette,  which  are  less  valued  in  Ireland; 
while  from  his  mother  he  succeeded  to  an  appreciation  of 
native  fun  and  drollery,  of  all  the  whims  and  oddities  of 
Irish  life,  which,  strange  enough,  are  as  well  understood 
by  the  Anglo-Irishman  as  by  one  ‘ to  the  manner  born.’ 

“I  met  Sir  Harvey  at  a supper  party  in  college.  Some 
song  I had  sung  of  my  own  composing,  or  some  story  of  my 
inventing,  I forget  which,  tickled  his  fancy.  He  begged 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


95 


to  be  introduced  to  me,  drew  his  chair  over  to  my  side  of 
the  table,  and  ended  by  giving  me  an  invitation  to  his 
house  for  the  partridge-shooting,  which  was  to  begin  in  a 
few  days.  I readily  assented.  It  was  a season  in  which  I 
had  nothing  to  do;  my  friend  Dan  had  gone  over  to  the 
II  ighlands  to  make  a purchase  of  some  ponies ; I was  rather 
flush  of  cash,  and  consequently  in  good  spirits.  It  was 
arranged  that  I should  drive  him  down  in  my  drag,  a turn- 
out with  four  spanking  grays,  of  whose  match  and  color, 
shape  and  action,  I was  not  a little  vain. 

“ We  posted  to  Carlow,  to  which  place  I had  sent  on  my 
horses,  and  arrived  the  same  evening  at  Sir  Harvey’s  house 
in  time  for  dinner.  This  was  the  first  acquaintance  I had 
made  independent  of  my  profession.  Sir  Harvey  knew  me 
as  Mr.  O’Kelly,  whom  he  met  at  an  old  friend’s  chambers 
in  college;  and  he  introduced  me  thus  to  his  company, 
adding  to  his  intimates  in  a whisper  which  I could  over- 
hear, ‘Devilish  fast  fellow;  up  to  everything;  knows  life 
at  home  and  abroad,  and  has  such  a team!’  Here  were 
requisites  enough,  in  all  conscience,  to  win  favor  among 
any  set  of  young  country  gentlemen,  and  I soon  found  my- 
self surrounded  by  a circle  who  listened  to  my  opinions  on 
every  subject,  and  recorded  my  judgments  with  the  most 
implicit  faith  in  their  wisdom,  no  matter  on  what  subject 
I talked,  — women,  wine,  the  drama,  play,  sporting,  debts, 
duns,  or  duels.  My  word  was  law. 

“Two  circumstances  considerably  aided  me  in  my  pres- 
ent supremacy.  First,  Sir  Harvey’s  friends  were  all  young 
men  from  Oxford,  who  knew  little  of  the  world,  and  less  of 
that  part  of  it  called  Ireland ; and  secondly,  they  were  all 
strangers  to  me,  and  consequently  my  liberty  of  speech  was 
untrammelled  by  any  unpleasant  reminiscences  of  dealing 
in  fairs  or  auctions. 

“The  establishment  was  presided  over  by  Sir  Harvey’s 
sister,  — at  least  nominally  so,  her  presence  being  a reason 
for  having  ladies  at  his  parties;  and  although  she  was  only 
nineteen,  she  gave  a tone  and  character  to  the  habits  of 
the  house  which  without  her  it  never  could  have  possessed. 
Miss  Blundell  was  a very  charming  person,  combining  in 
herself  two  qualities  which,  added  to  beauty,  made  a very 


96 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


irresistible  ensemble.  She  hacl  the  greatest  flow  of  spirits, 
with  a retiring  and  almost  timidly  bashful  disposition; 
courage  for  anything,  and  a delicacy  that  shrunk  abashed 
from  all  that  bordered  on  display,  or  bore  the  slightest 
semblance  of  effrontery.  I shall  say  no  more  than  that 
before  I was  a week  in  the  house  I was  over  head  and  ears 
in  love  with  her;  my  whole  thoughts  centred  in  her;  my 
chief  endeavor  was  to  show  myself  in  such  a light  as  might 
win  her  favor. 

“ Every  accomplishment  I possessed,  every  art  and  power 
of  amusing,  I exerted  in  her  service;  and  at  last  perceived 
that  she  was  not  indifferent  to  me.  Then,  and  then  for  the 
first  time,  came  the  thought,  — who  was  I,  that  dared  to  do 
this;  what  had  I of  station,  rank,  or  wealth  to  entitle  me 
to  sue,  perhaps  to  gain,  the  affections  of  one  like  her? 
The  duplicity  of  my  conduct  started  up  before  me;  and  I 
saw  for  the  first  time  how  the  mere  ardor  of  pursuit  that 
led  me  on  and  on,  how  the  daring  to  surmount  a difficulty 
had  stirred  my  heart,  at  first  to  win  and  then  to  worship  her. 
The  bitterness  of  my  self-reproach  at  that  moment  became 
a punishment,  which  even  now  I remember  with  a shud- 
der. It  is  too  true  that  the  great  misfortunes  of  life  form 
more  endurable  subjects  for  memory  in  old  age  than  the 
instances,  however  trivial,  where  we  have  acted  amiss,  and 
where  conscience  rebukes  us.  I have  had  my  share  of 
calamity,  one  way  or  other;  my  life  has  been  more  than 
once  in  peril,  and  in  such  peril  as  might  well  shake  the 
nerve  of  the  boldest.  I can  think  on  all  these,  and  do 
think  on  them  often,  without  fear  or  heart -failing;  but 
never  can  I face  the  hours  when  my  oavii  immediate  self- 
love  and  vanity  brought  their  own  penalty  on  me,  without 
a sense  of  self-abasement  as  vivid  as  the  moment  I first 
experienced  it.  But  I must  hasten  over  this. 

“I  had  been  now  about  six  weeks  in  Sir  Harvey’s  house, 
day  after  day  determining  on  my  departure,  and  invariably 
yielding  when  the  time  came  to  some  new  request  to  stay 
for  something  or  other,  — now  a day’s  fishing  on  the  Nore; 
now  another  morning  at  the  partridge;  then  there  was  a 
boat-race,  or  a music  party,  or  a picnic.  In  fact,  each  day 
led  on  to  another,  and  I found  myself  lingering  on,  unable 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


97 


to  tear  myself  from  where,  I felt,  my  remaining  was  ruin. 
At  last  I made  up  my  mind,  and  determined,  come  what 
would,  to  take  my  leave,  never  to  return.  I mentioned  to 
Sir  Harvey  in  the  morning  that  some  matter  of  importance 
required  my  presence  in  town,  and  by  a half-promise  to 
spend  my  Christmas  with  him,  obtained  his  consent  to  my 
departure. 

“We  were  returning  from  an  evening  walk;  Miss 
Blundell  was  leaning  on  my  arm,  — we  were  the  last 
of  the  party,  the  others  having  by  some  chance  or  other 
gone  forward,  leaving  us  to  follow  alone.  For  some  time 
neither  of  us  spoke.  What  were  her  thoughts  I cannot 
guess;  mine  were,  I acknowledge,  entirely  fixed  upon  the 
hour  I was  to  see  her  for  the  last  time,  while  I balanced 
whether  I should  speak  of  my  approaching  departure,  or 
leave  her  without  even  a good-by. 

I did  not  know  at  the  time,  so  well  as  I now  do,  how 
much  of  the  interest  I had  excited  in  her  heart  depended 
on  the  mystery  of  my  life.  The  stray  hints  I now  and 
then  dropped,  the  stories  into  which  I was  occasionally 
led,  the  wild  scenes  and  wilder  adventures  in  which  I 
bore  my  part,  had  done  more  than  stimulate  her  curiosity 
concerning  me.  This,  I repeat,  I knew  not  at  the  time, 
and  the  secret  of  my  career  weighed  like  a crime  upon  my 
conscience.  I hesitated  long  whether  I should  not  dis- 
close every  circumstance  of  my  life,  and  by  the  avowal  of 
my  utter  unworthiness  repair,  as  far  as  might  be,  the 
injury  I had  done  her.  Then  came  that  fatal  amour 
propre  that  involved  me  originally  in  the  pursuit,  and  I 
was  silent. 

We  had  not  been  many  minutes  thus,  when  a servant 
came  from  the  house,  to  inform  Miss  Blundell  that  her 
cousin,  Captain  Douglas,  had  arrived.  As  she  nodded  her 
head  in  reply,  I perceived  the  color  mounted  to  her  cheek, 
and  an  expression  of  agitation  passed  over  her  features. 

“‘Who  is  Captain  Douglas?’  said  I,  without,  however, 
venturing  to  look  more  fully  at  her. 

“‘  Oh,  a cousin,  — a second  or  third  cousin,  I believe,  but 
a great  friend  of  Harvey’s.’ 

“‘And  of  his  sister’s  too,  if  I might  presume  so  far?’ 


98 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ * Quite  wrong  for  once,  ’ said  she,  with  an  effort  to 
seem  at  ease;  ‘he’s  not  the  least  a favorite  of  mine, 
although  — ’ 

“ ‘ You  are  of  his!’  I added  quickly.  ‘Well,  well,  I 
really  beg  pardon  for  this  boldness  of  mine.’  How  1 was 
about  to  continue,  I know  not,  when  her  brother’s  voice, 
calling  her  aloud,  broke  off  all  further  conversation. 

‘“Come,  Fanny,’  said  he,  ‘here’s  Harry  Douglas,  just 
come  with  all  the  London  gossip;  lie’s  been  to  Windsor, 
loo,  and  has  been  dining  with  the  Prince.  O’Kelly,  you 
must  know  Douglas;  you  are  just  the  men  to  suit  each 
other.  He ’s  got  a heavy  book  on  the  Derby,  and  will  be 
delighted  to  have  a chat  with  you  about  the  turf.’ 

“As  I followed  Miss  Blundell  into  the  drawing-room,  my 
heart  was  heavy  and  depressed.  Few  of  the  misfortunes 
in  life  come  on  us  without  foreboding.  The  clouds  that 
usher  in  the  storm  cast  their  shadows  on  the  earth  before 
they  break ; and  so  it  is  with  our  fate.  A gloomy  sense  of 
coming  evil  presages  the  blow  about  to  fall,  and  he  who 
would  not  be  stunned  by  the  stroke  must  not  neglect  the 
warning. 

“The  room  was  full  of  people;  the  ordinary  buzz  and 
chit-chat  of  an  evening  party  was  going  forward,  among 
which  I heard  my  name  bandied  about  on  every  side. 
‘O’Kelly  will  arrange  this,’  cried  one;  ‘leave  it  all  to 
O’Kelly,  he  must  decide  it;’  and  so  on,  when  suddenly 
Blundell  called  out,  — 

“‘  O’Kelly,  come  up  here;  ’ and  then  taking  me  by  the 
arm  he  led  me  to  the  end  of  the  room,  where,  with  his 
back  turned  towards  us,  a tall,  fashionable-looking  man 
was  talking  to  his  sister.  ‘ Harry,’  cried  the  host,  as  he 
touched  his  elbow,  ‘ let  me  introduce  a very  particular 
friend  of  mine, — Mr.  O’Kelly.’ 

“Captain  Douglas  wheeled  sharply  round,  and  fixing  on 
me  a pair  of  dark  eyes,  overshadowed  with  heavy  beetling 
brows,  looked  at  me  sternly  without  speaking.  A cold 
thrill  ran  through  me  from  head  to  foot  as  i met  his  gaze; 
the  last  time  we  had  seen  each  other  was  in  a square  of 
the  Koyal  Barracks,  where  he  was  purchasing  a remount 
for  his  troop,  and  / was  the  horse-dealer. 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


99 


“‘Your  friend,  Mr.  O’Kelly!’  said  he,  as  he  fixed  his 
glass  in  his  eye,  and  a most  insulting  curl,  half  smile, 
half  sneer,  played  about  his  mouth. 

How  very  absurd  you  are,  Harry,’  said  Miss  Blundell, 
endeavoring,  by  an  allusion  to  something  they  were 
speaking  of,  to  relieve  the  excessive  awkwardness  of 
the  moment. 

“ ‘ Yes,  to  be  sure,  uiy  friend,’  chimed  in  Sir  Harvey, 
* and  a devilish  good  fellow  too,  and  the  best  judge  of 
horse-flesh.  ’ 

I haven’t  a doubt  of  it,’  was  the  dry  remark  of  the 
captain;  ‘but  how  did  he  get  here?’ 

“‘Sir,’  said  I,  in  a voice  scarce  audible  with  passion, 
1 whatever  or  whoever  I am,  by  birth  at  least  I am  fully 
your  equal.’ 

“ ‘ Damn  your  pedigree ! ’ said  he,  coolly. 

“‘Why,  Harry!’  interrupted  Blundell;  ‘what  are  you 
thinking  of?  Mr.  O’ Kelly  is  — ’ 

“‘A  jockey, — a horse-dealer,  if  you  will,  and  the  best 
hand  at  passing  off  a screw  I ’ve  met  for  some  time.  I 
say,  sir,  ’ continued  he,  in  a louder  tone,  ‘ that  roan  charger 
hasn’t  answered  his  warranty;  he  stands  at  Dycer’s  for 
you.’ 

“Had  a thunderbolt  fallen  in  the  midst  of  us,  the  con- 
sternation could  not  have  been  greater;  as  for  me,  every 
thing  around  bore  a look  of  mockery  and  scorn.  Derision 
and  contempt  sat  on  every  feature,  and  a wild  uncertainty 
of  purpose,  like  coming  insanity,  flitted  through  my  brain. 
What  I said,  or  how  I quitted  the  spot,  I am  unable  to 
say;  my  last  remembrance  of  that  accursed  moment  was 
the  burst  of  horrid  laughter  that  filled  my  ears  as  I rushed 
out.  I almost  think  that  I hear  it  still,  like  the  yell  of 
the  furies;  its  very  cadence  was  torture.  I ran  from  the 
house;  I crossed  the  fields  without  a thought  of  whither 
I was  going, — escape,  concealment,  my  only  object.  I 
sought  to  hide  myself  forever  from  the  eyes  of  those  who 
had  looked  upon  me  with  such  withering  contempt;  and  I 
should  have  been  thankful  to  him  who  would  have  given 
me  refuge  beneath  the  dank  grass  of  the  churchyard. 

“Never  did  a guilty  man  fly  from  the  scene  of  his  crime 


100 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


with  more  precipitate  haste  than  I did  from  the  spot  which 
had  witnessed  my  shame  and  degradation.  At  every  step 
I thought  of  the  cruel  speeches,  the  harsh  railings,  and  the 
bitter  irony  of  all  before  whom,  but  one  hour  ago,  I stood 
chief  and  pre-eminent;  and  although  I vowed  to  myself 
never  to  meet  any  of  them  again,  I could  not  pluck  from 
my  heart  the  innate  sense  of  my  despicable  condition,  and 
how  low  I must  now  stand  in  the  estimation  of  the  very 
lowest  I had  so  late  looked  down  upon.  And  here  let  me 
passingly  remark,  that,  while  we  often  hold  lightly  the 
praise  of  those  upon  whose  powers  of  judgment  and  reach 
of  information  we  place  little  value,  by  some  strange  con- 
trariety we  feel  most  bitterly  the  censure  of  these  very 
people  whenever  any  trivial  circumstance,  any  small  or 
petty  observance  with  which  they  are  acquainted,  gives 
them  for  the  time  the  power  of  an  opinion.  The  mere 
fact  of  our  contempt  for  them  adds  a poignancy  to  their 
condemnation,  and  I question  much  if  we  do  not  bear 
up  better  against  the  censure  of  the  wise  than  the  scoff  of 
the  ignorant. 

“On  I went,  and  on,  never  even  turning  my  head;  for 
though  I had  left  all  the  little  wealth  I possessed  in  the 
world,  I would  gladly  have  given  it,  ten  times  told,  to  have 
blotted  out  even  a particle  of  the  shame  that  rested  on  my 
character.  Scarcely  had  I reached  the  high-road,  when  I 
heard  the  quick  tramp  of  horses  and  the  rattle  of  wheels 
behind  me;  and  so  strong  were  the  instincts  of  my  fear 
that  I scarcely  dared  to  look  back;  at  length  I did  so,  and 
beheld  the  mail-coach  coming  towards  me  at  a rapid  pace. 
As  it  neared,  I hailed  the  coachman,  and  without  an 
inquiry  as  to  where  it  was  going,  I sprang  up  to  a place 
on  the  roof,  thankful  that  ere  long  1 should  leave  miles 
between  me  and  my  torturers. 

“The  same  evening  we  arrived  in  Cork.  During  the 
journey  I made  acquaintance  with  a sergeant  of  a light- 
dragoon  regiment,  who  was  proceeding  in  charge  of  three 
recruits  to  the  depot  at  Cove.  With  the  quick  eye  of  his 
calling,  the  fellow  saw  something  in  my  dispirited  state 
that  promised  success  to  his  wishes;  and  he  immediately 
began  the  thousand-times-told  tale  of  the  happiness  of  a 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


101 


soldier's  life.  I stopped  him  short  at  once,  for  my  mind 
was  already  made  up;  and  before  the  day  broke  I had 
enlisted  in  his  Majesty’s  Twelfth  Light  Dragoons,  at  that 
time  serving  in  America. 

“ If  I have  spared  you  the  recital  of  many  painful  pas- 
sages in  my  life,  I shall  also  pass  over  this  portion  of  my 
career,  which,  though  not  marked  by  any  distinct  feature 
of  calamity,  was,  perhaps,  the  most  painful  I ever  knew, 
lie  who  thinks  that  in  joining  the  ranks  of  an  army,  his 
only  trials  will  be  the  severity  of  an  unaccustomed  disci- 
pline and  the  common  hardships  of  a soldier’s  life,  takes 
but  a very  shallow  view  of  what  is  before  him.  Coarse 
and  vulgar  associates,  depraved  tastes  and  brutal  habits, 
the  ribald  jest  of  the  barrack-room,  the  comrade  spirit  of 
a class  the  very  lowest  and  meanest,  — these  are  the  trials, 
the  almost  insupportable  trials,  of  him  who  has  known 
better  days.  As  hour  by  hour  he  finds  himself  yielding  to 
the  gradual  pressure  of  his  fate,  and  feels  his  mind  assum- 
ing one  by  one  the  prejudices  of  those  about  him,  his  self- 
esteem falls  with  his  condition,  and  he  sees  that  the  time 
is  not  distant  when  all  inequality  between  him  and  his 
fellows  shall  cease,  and  every  trait  of  his  former  self  be 
washed  away  forever. 

“After  four  months  of  such  endurance  as  I dare  not 
even  now  suffer  myself  to  dwell  upon,  orders  arrived  at 
Cove  for  the  recruits  of  the  different  regiments  at  once  to 
proceed  to  Chatham,  whence  they  were  to  be  forwarded 
to  their  respective  corps.  I believe,  in  my  heart,  had  this 
order  not  come  I should  have  deserted,  so  unendurable  had 
my  life  become.  The  thought  of  active  service,  the  pros- 
pect of  advancement  however  remote,  cheered  my  spirits; 
and,  for  the  first  time  since  I joined,  my  heart  was  light 
on  the  morning  when  the  old  ‘ Northumberland  ’ transport 
anchored  in  the  harbor,  and  the  signal  for  embarking  the 
troops  floated  from  the  mast-head.  A motley  crew  we 
were,  — frieze-coated,  red-coated,  and  no-coated ; some, 
ruddy-cheeked  farmers’  boys,  sturdy  good-humored  fel- 
lows, with  the  bloom  of  country  life  \ipon  their  faces; 
some,  the  pale,  sickly  inhabitants  of  towns,  whose  sharp- 
ened features  and  quick  penetrating  eyes  betokened  how 


102 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


much  their  wits  had  contributed  to  their  maintenance.  A 
few  there  were,  like  myself,  drawn  from  a better  class,  but 
already  scarce  distinguishable  amid  the  herd.  We  were 
nearly  five  hundred  in  number,  one  feature  of  equality  per- 
vading all,  — none  of  us  had  any  arms.  Some  instances  of 
revolt  and  mutiny  that  had  occurred  a short  time  previous 
on  board  troop-ships  had  induced  the  Horse  Guards  to 
adopt  this  resolution,  and  a general  order  was  issued  that 
the  recruits  should  not  receive  arms  before  their  arrival  at 
Chatham.  At  last  we  weighed  anchor,  and  with  a light 
easy  wind  stood  out  to  sea.  It  was  the  first  time  I had 
been  afloat  for  many  a long  day ; and  as  I leaned  over  the 
bulwark,  and  heard  the  light  rustle  of  the  waves  as  they 
broke  on  the  cut-water,  and  watched  the  white  foam  as  it 
rippled  past,  I thought  on  the  old  days  of  my  smuggling 
life,  when  I trod  the  plank  of  my  little  craft  with  a step  as 
light  and  a heart  as  free  as  ever  did  the  proudest  admiral 
on  the  poop-deck  of  his  three-decker;  and  as  I remembered 
what  I then  had  been,  and  thought  of  what  I now  was,  a 
growing  melancholy  settled  upon  me,  and  I sat  apart  and 
spoke  to  none. 

“On  the  third  night  after  we  sailed,  the  breeze,  which 
had  set  in  at  sunset,  increased  considerably,  and  a heavy 
sea  rolled  in  from  the  westward.  Now,  although  the 
weather  was  not  such  as  to  endanger  the  safety  of  a 
good  ship  with  an  able  crew,  yet  was  it  by  no  means 
a matter  of  indifference  in  an  old  rotten  craft  like  the 
‘Northumberland,’  condemned  half  a dozen  years  before, 
and  barely  able  to  make  her  voyage  in  light  winds  and  fine 
weather.  Our  skipper  knew  this  well,  and  I could  see  by 
the  agitation  of  his  features  and  the  altered  tones  of  his 
voice  how  little  he  liked  the  freshening  gale,  and  the  low 
moaning  sound  that  swept  along  the  sea  and  threatened  a 
storm.  The  pumps  had  been  at  work  for  some  hours,  and 
it  was  clear  that  the  most  we  could  do  was  to  keep  the 
water  from  gaining  on  us.  A chance  observation  of  mine 
had  attracted  the  skipper’s  attention,  and  after  a few  min- 
utes’ conversation  he  saw  that  I was  a seaman  not  only 
better  informed  but  more  habituated  to  danger  than  him- 
self; he  was  therefore  glad  to  take  counsel  from  me,  and 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


103 


at  my  suggestion  a spare  sail  was  bent,  and  passed  under 
the  ship’s  bottom,  which  soon  arrested  the  progress  of  the 
leak,  and  at  the  same  time  assisted  the  vessel’s  sailing. 
Meanwhile  the  storm  was  increasing,  and  it  now  blew 
what  the  sailors  call  ‘great  guns.’ 

“We  were  staggering  along  under  light  canvas,  when  the 
look-out-ahead  announced  a light  on  the  weather-bow;  it 
was  evidently  coming  towards  us,  and  scarce  half  a mile 
distant.  We  had  no  more  than  time  to  hang  out  a lantern 
in  the  tops  and  put  up  the  helm,  when  a large  ship,  whose 
sides  rose  several  feet  above  our  own,  swept  by  us,  and  so 
close  that  her  yard-arms  actually  touched  our  rigging  as 
she  yawed  over  in  the  sea.  A muttered  thanksgiving  for 
our  escape,  for  such  it  was,  broke  from  every  lip;  and 
hardly  was  it  uttered,  when  again  a voice  cried  out,  ‘ Here 
she  comes  to  leeward,’  — and  sure  enough  the  dark  shadow 
of  the  large  mass  moving  at  a speed  far  greater  than  ours 
passed  under  our  lee,  while  a harsh  summons  was  shouted 
out  to  know  who  we  were,  and  whither  bound.  ‘ The 
“Northumberland,”  with  troops,’  was  the  answer;  and 
before  the  words  were  well  out,  a banging  noise  was 
heard,  the  ports  of  the  stranger  ship  were  flung  open,  a 
bright  flash  like  a line  of  flame  ran  her  entire  length,  and 
a raking  broadside  was  poured  into  us.  The  old  transport 
reeled  over  and  trembled  like  a thing  of  life;  her  shattered 
sides  and  torn  bulwarks  let  in  the  water  as  she  heeled  to 
the  shock,  and  for  an  instant,  as  she  bent  beneath  the 
storm,  I thought  she  was  settling,  to  go  down  by  the  head. 
I had  little  time,  however,  for  thought;  one  wild  cheer 
broke  from  the  attacking  ship;  its  answer  was  the  faint, 
sad  cry  of  the  wounded  and  dying  on  our  deck.  The  next 
moment  the  grapples  were  thrown  into  us,  and  the  vessel 
was  boarded  from  stem  to  stern.  The  noise  of  the  cannon- 
ade and  the  voices  on  deck  brought  all  our  men  from 
below,  who  came  tumbling  up  the  hatches,  believing  we 
had  struck. 

“Then  began  a scene  such  as  all  I have  ever  witnessed 
of  carnage  and  slaughter  cannot  equal.  The  Frenchmen, 
for  such  they  were,  rushed  down  upon  us  as  we  stood 
defenceless  and  unarmed;  a deadly  roll  of  musketry  swept 


104 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


our  thick  and  trembling  masses;  the  cutlass  and  the 
boarding-pike  made  fearful  havoc  among  us;  and  an 
unresisted  slaughter  tore  along  our  deck,  till  the  heaps 
of  dead  and  dying  made  the  only  barrier  for  the  few 
remaining. 

“A  chance  word  in  French  and  a sign  of  masonry  rescued 
me  from  the  fate  of  my  comrades;  and  my  only  injury  was 
a slight  sabre-wound  in  the  fore-arm,  which  I received  in 
warding  off  a cut  intended  for  my  head.  The  carnage 
lasted  scarce  fifteen  minutes;  but  in  that  time,  of  all  the 
crew  that  manned  our  craft  — what  between  those  who 
leaped  overboard  in  wild  despair,  and  those  who  fell 
beneath  lire  and  steel  — scarce  fifty  remained,  appalled 
and  trembling,  the  only  ones  rescued  from  this  horrible 
slaughter.  A sudden  cry  of  ‘ She’s  sinking!  ’ burst  from 
the  strange  ship,  and  in  a moment  the  Frenchmen  clam- 
bered up  their  bulwarks,  the  grapples  were  cast  off,  the 
dark  mass  darted  onwards  on  her  course,  and  we  drifted 
away  to  leeward, — a moving  sepulchre! 

“As  the  clouds  flew  past,  the  moon  shone  out  and  threw 
a pale,  sickly  light  on  the  scene  of  slaughter,  where  the 
dead  and  dying  lay  in  indiscriminate  heaps  together.  So 
frightful  a spectacle  never  did  eye  rest  upon!  The  few 
who  like  myself  survived,  stood  trembling,  half  stunned 
by  the  shock,  not  daring  to  assist  the  wretched  men  as 
they  writhed  in  agony  before  us.  I was  the  first  to  recover 
from  this  stupor,  and  turning  to  the  others  I made  signs  to 
clear  the  decks  of  the  dead  bodies : speak  I could  not.  It 
was  some  time  before  they  could  be  made  to  understand 
me.  Unhappily,  not  a single  sailor  had  escaped  the  car- 
nage; some  raw  recruits  were  the  only  survivors  of  that 
dreadful  night.  After  a little  they  rallied  so  far  as  to 
obey  me,  and  I,  taking  the  wheel,  assumed  the  command 
of  the  vessel,  and  endeavored  to  steer  a course  for  any  port 
on  the  west  coast  of  England. 

“Day  broke  at  length,  but  a wide  waste  of  waters  lay 
around  us.  The  wind  had  abated  considerably,  but  still 
the  sea  ran  high;  and  although  our  foresail  and  trysail 
remained  bent,  as  before  the  attack,  we  labored  heavily, 
and  made  little  way  through  the  water.  Our  decks  were 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


105 


quite  covered  with  the  dying,  whose  heart-rending  cries, 
mingled  with  the  wilder  shouts  of  madness,  were  too 
horrible  to  bear.  But  I cannot  dwell  on  such  a picture. 
Of  the  few  who  survived,  scarcely  three  were  serviceable. 
Some  sat  cold  and  speechless  from  terror,  and  seemed 
insensible  to  every  threat  or  entreaty;  some  sternly  re- 
fused to  obey  my  orders,  and  prowled  about  between  decks 
in  search  of  spirits;  and  one,  maddened  by  the  horrors  he 
beheld,  sprang  with  a scream  into  the  sea,  and  never  was 
seen  more. 

“Towards  evening  we  heard  a hail,  and  on  looking  out 
saw  a pilot-boat  making  for  us;  and  in  a short  time  we 
were  boarded  by  a pilot,  who  with  some  of  his  crew  took 
charge  of  the  vessel,  and  before  sunset  we  anchored  in 
Milford. 

“ Immediately  on  landing  I was  sent  up  to  London  under 
a strong  escort,  to  give  an  account  of  the  whole  affair  to 
the  Admiralty.  For  eight  days  my  examination  was  con- 
tinued during  several  hours  everyday;  and  at  last  I was 
dismissed,  with  promotion  to  the  rank  of  sergeant  for  my 
conduct  in  saving  the  ship,  and  appointed  to  the  Fortieth 
Foot,  then  under  orders  for  Quebec. 

“Once  more  at  sea  and  in  good  spirits,  I sailed  for 
Quebec  on  a line  morning  in  April,  on  board  the  ‘ Aber- 
crombie. ’ Nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  the 
voyage.  The  weather  Avas  clear,  with  a fair  fresh  breeze 
and  a smooth  sea;  and  at  the  end  of  the  third  week  we 
dropped  our  lead  on  the  green  bank  of  Newfoundland,  and 
brought  up  again  a codfish  every  time  Ave  heaved  it.  We 
now  entered  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  and  began  anxiously 
to  look  for  land. 

“On  the  third  morning  after  we  made  the  Gulf  a heavy 
snow-storm  came  on,  which  prevented  our  seeing  a cable’s 
length  ahead  of  us.  It  Avas  so  cold,  too,  that  feAv  remained 
on  deck;  for  although  the  first  of  May,  it  Avas  about  as 
severe  a day  as  I remember.  Anxious  to  see  something  of 
the  country,  I remained  with  the  look-out-ahead,  straining 
my  eyes  to  catch  a glimpse  of  the  land  through  the  dense 
snoAV-drift.  All  I could  distinguish,  hoAvever,  Avas  the  dim 
outline  of  distant  mountains,  apparently  covered  with  snow; 


106 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


but  as  the  day  wore  on  we  came  in  sight  of  the  long  law 
island  of  Anticosti,  which,  though  considerably  more  than 
a hundred  miles  in  length,  is  not  in  any  part  more  than 
fifteen  feet  above  the  level  of  the  water.  Towards  evening 
the  land  became  much  clearer  to  view;  and  now  I could 
perceive  tall,  peaked  mountains  some  thousand  feet  in 
height,  their  bases  clad  with  stunted  pine-trees,  their 
white  summits  stretching  away  into  the  clouds.  As  I 
looked,  my  astonishment  was  great  to  find  that  the  vast 
gulf  which  at  daybreak  was  some  sixty  miles  in  width 
seemed  now  diminished  to  about  eight  or  ten,  and  con- 
tinued to  narrow  rapidly  as  we  proceeded  on  our  course. 
The  skipper,  who  had  only  made  the  voyage  once  before, 
seemed  himself  confused,  and  endeavored  to  explain  our 
apparent  vicinity  to  the  land  as  some  mere  optical  delu- 
sion, — now  attributing  it  to  something  in  the  refraction 
of  the  light;  now,  the  snow.  Although  he  spoke  with  all 
the  assurance  of  knowledge,  it  was  evident  to  me  that  he 
was  by  no  means  satisfied  in  his  own  mind  of  the  facts  he 
presented  to  ours. 

“As  the  snow-storm  abated,  we  could  see  that  the  moun- 
tains which  lay  on  either  side  of  us  met  each  other  in 
front,  forming  a vast  amphitheatre  without  any  exit. 

This  surely  is  not  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence?’  said  I 
to  an  old  sailor  who  sat  leisurely  chewing  tobacco,  with  his 
back  to  the  capstern. 

“‘No,  that  it  ain’t,’  said  he,  coolly;  ‘ it’s  Gasp6  Bay, 
and  I shouldn’t  wish  to  be  in  a worse  place.’ 

“ ‘ What  could  have  brought  us  here,  then?  The  skipper 
surely  does  n’t  know  where  we  are?  ’ 

“ ‘ I ’ll  tell  you  what  has  brought  us  here.  There ’s  a 
current  from  the  Gulf  Stream  sets  into  this  bay  at  seven 
or  eight  knots  the  hour,  and  brings  in  all  the  floating  ice 
along  with  it — There,  am  I right?  Do  you  hear  that?  ’ 
“As  he  spoke,  a tremendous  crash,  almost  as  loud  as 
thunder,  was  heard  at  our  bow;  and  as  I rushed  to  the  bul- 
wark and  looked  over,  I beheld  vast  fragments  of  ice  more 
than  a foot  thick,  encrusted  with  frozen  snow,  flying  past 
us  in  circling  eddies;  while  farther  on  the  large  flakes 
were  mounting,  one  above  the  other,  clattering  and  crash- 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


107 


ing  as  the  waves  broke  among  them.  Heaven  knows  how 
much  farther  our  mulish  Cumberland  skipper  would  have 
pursued  his  voyage  of  discovery  had  not  the  soundings  pro- 
claimed but  five  fathom  water.  Our  sails  were  now  backed ; 
but  as  the  current  continued  to  bear  us  along,  a boat  was 
got  out,  and  an  anchor  put  in  readiness  to  warp  us  astern; 
but  by  an  unhappy  accident  the  anchor  slipped  in  lowering 
over  the  side,  stove  in  the  boat,  and  of  the  four  poor  fel- 
lows who  were  under  it,  one  was  carried  under  the  ice  and 
never  seen  again.  This  was  a bad  beginning,  and  matters 
now  appeared  each  moment  more  threatening.  As  we  still 
continued  to  drift  with  the  current,  a bower-anchor  was 
dropped  where  we  were,  and  the  vessel  afterwards  swung 
round  head  to  wind,  while  the  ice  came  crashing  upon  the 
cut-water  and  on  the  sides,  with  a noise  that  made  all  else 
inaudible.  It  was  found  by  this  time  that  the  water  was 
shoaling,  and  this  gave  new  cause  for  fear;  for  if  the  ship 
were  to  touch  the  ground,  it  was  clear  all  chance  of  saving 
her  was  at  an  end. 

“After  a number  of  different  opinions  were  given  and 
canvassed,  it  was  determined  that  four  men  should  be  sent 
ashore  in  the  yawl  to  find  out  some  one  who  knew  the  pilot- 
age of  the  bay ; for  we  could  descry  several  log-liuts  along 
the  shore,  at  short  distances  from  one  another.  With  my 
officer’s  permission,  I obtained  leave  to  make  one  of  this 
party,  and  I soon  found  myself  tugging  away  at  the  bow- 
oar  through  a heavy  surf.  After  rowing  about  an  hour, 
the  twilight  began  to  fall,  and  we  could  but  faintly  per- 
ceive the  outline  of  the  ship,  while  the  log-huts  on  shore 
seemed  scarcely  nearer  than  at  the  moment  when  we  quit- 
ted the  vessel.  By  this  time  large  fields  of  ice  were  about 
us  on  every  side;  rowing  was  no  longer  possible,  and  we 
groped  along  with  our  boat-hooks,  finding  a channel  where 
we  could  avoid  the  floating  masses. 

“The  peril  of  this  proceeding  grew  with  every  moment. 
Sometimes  our  frail  boat  would  be  struck  with  such  force 
as  threatened  to  stave  in  every  plank;  sometimes  she  was 
driven  high  upon  a piece  of  ice,  from  which  it  took  all  our 
efforts  to  extricate  her;  while,  as  we  advanced,  no  passage 
presented  itself  before  us,  but  flake  upon  flake  of  frozen 


108 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


matter,  among  which  were  fragments  of  wrecks  and 
branches  of  trees,  mixed  up  together.  The  sailors,  who 
had  undertaken  the  enterprise  against  their  will,  now 
resolved  they  would  venture  no  farther,  but  make  their 
way  back  to  the  ship  while  it  was  yet  possible.  I alone 
opposed  this  plan.  To  return,  without  at  least  having 
reached  the  shore,  I told  them,  would  be  a disgrace;  the 
safety  of  all  on  board  was  in  a manner  committed  to  our 
efforts,  and  I endeavored  by  every  argument  to  induce 
them  to  proceed.  To  no  purpose  did  1 tell  them  this;  of 
no  use  was  it  that  I pointed  out  the  lights  on  shore,  which 
we  could  now  see  moving  from  place  to  place,  as  though  we 
had  been  perceived,  and  that  some  preparations  were  mak- 
ing for  our  rescue.  I was  outvoted;  back  they  would  go; 
and  one  of  them,  as  he  pushed  the  boat’s  head  round,  jeer- 
ingly  said  to  me,  — 

“‘Why,  with  such  jolly  good  foot-way,  don’t  you  go 
yourself?  You’ll  have  all  the  honor,  you  know.’ 

“The  taunt  stung  me  to  the  quick,  the  more  as  it  called 
forth  a laugh  from  the  rest.  I made  no  answer,  but  seiz- 
ing a boat-hook,  sprang  over  the  side  upon  a large  mass  of 
ice.  The  action  drove  the  boat  from  me.  I heard  them 
call  to  me  to  come  back;  but  come  what  would,  my  mind 
was  made  up.  I never  turned  my  head,  but  with  my  eyes 
fixed  on  the  shore-lights  I dashed  on,  glad  to  find  that  with 
every  stroke  of  the  sea  the  ice  was  borne  onwards  towards 
the  land.  At  length  the  sound  of  the  breakers  ahead  made 
me  fearful  of  venturing  farther,  for  as  the  darkness  fell  I 
had  to  trust  entirely  to  my  hearing  as  my  guide.  I stood 
then  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  as  the  wind  whistled  past,  and 
the  snow-drift  was  borne  in  eddying  currents  by  me,  I drove 
my  boat-hook  into  the  ice,  and  held  on  firmly  by  it. 

“ Suddenly  through  the  gloom  a bright  flash  flared  out, 
and  then  I could  see  it  flitting  along,  and  at  last  I thought 
I could  mark  it  directing  its  course  towards  the  ship.  I 
strained  my  eyes  to  their  utmost,  and  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy 
I shouted  aloud,  as  I beheld  a canoe  manned  by  Indians, 
with  a pine  torch  blazing  in  the  prow.  The  red  light  of 
the  burning  wood  lit  up  their  wild  figures  as  they  came 
along,  now  carrying  their  light  bark  over  the  fields  of  ice, 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


109 


now  launching  it  into  the  boiling  surf;  and  thus,  alter- 
nately walking  and  sailing,  they  came  at  a speed  almost 
inconceivable.  They  soon  heard  my  shouts,  and  directed 
their  course  to  where  I stood;  but  the  excitement  of  my 
danger,  the  dreadful  alternations  of  hope  and  fear  thus 
suddenly  ceasing,  so  stunned  me  that  I could  not  speak  as 
they  took  me  in  their  arms  and  placed  me  in  the  bottom  of 
the  canoe. 

“Of  our  course  back  to  shore  I remember  little.  The 
intense  cold,  added  to  the  stupefaction  of  my  mind, 
brought  on  a state  resembling  sleep;  and  even  when 
they  lifted  me  on  land,  the  drowsy  lethargy  clung  to 
me;  and  only  when  I found  myself  beside  the  blaze  of  a 
wood-fire,  did  my  faculties  begin  to  revive,  and,  like  a seal 
under  the  rays  of  the  sun,  did  I warm  into  life  once  more. 
The  first  thing  I did  when  morning  broke  was  to  spring 
from  my  resting-place  beside  the  fire,  and  rush  out  to  look 
for  the  ship.  The  sun  was  shining  brilliantly;  the  bay 
lay  calm  as  a mirror  before  me,  reflecting  the  tall  moun- 
tains and  the  taper  pines;  but  the  ship  was  gone,  not  a 
sail  appeared  in  sight.  And  now  I learned  that  when  the 
tide  began  to  make,  and  she  was  enabled  to  float,  a land- 
breeze  sprang  up,  which  carried  her  gently  out  to  sea,  and 
that  she  was  in  all  likelihood  by  that  time  some  thirty 
miles  in  her  course  up  the  St.  Lawrence.  For  a moment 
my  joy  at  the  deliverance  of  my  companions  was  unchecked 
by  any  thought  of  my  own  desolate  condition;  the  next 
minute  I remembered  myself,  and  sat  down  upon  a stone, 
and  gazed  out  upon  the  wide  waters  with  a sad  and  sinking 
heart.” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


the  smuggler’s  story  ( concluded ). 

“ Life  had  presented  too  many  vicissitudes  before  me  to 
make  much  difference  in  my  temperament,  whatever  came 
uppermost.  Like  the  gambler,  who  if  lie  lose  to-day  goes 
off  consoling  himself  that  he  may  be  a winner  to-morrow, 
I had  learned  never  to  feel  very  acutely  any  misfortune, 
provided  only  that  I could  see  some  prospect  of  its  not 
being  permanent;  and  how  many  are  there  who  go  through 
the  world  in  this  fashion,  getting  the  credit  all  the  while 
of  being  such  true  philosophers,  so  much  elevated  above 
the  chances  and  changes  of  fortune,  and  who,  after  all,  only 
apply  to  the  game  of  life  the  same  rule  of  action  they 
practise  at  the  rouge  et  noir  table! 

“ The  worthy  folks  among  whom  my  lot  was  now  cast 
were  a tribe  of  red  men  called  the  Gasp6  Indians,  who 
among  other  pastimes  peculiar  to  themselves  followed  the 
respectable  and  ancient  trade  of  wreckers,  in  which  occu- 
pation the  months  of  October  and  November  usually  sup- 
plied them  with  as  much  as  they  could  do;  after  that,  the 
ice  closed  in  on  the  bay,  and  no  vessel  could  pass  up  or 
down  the  St.  Lawrence  before  the  following  spring. 

“It  was  for  some  time  to  me  a puzzle  how  people  so 
completely  barbarous  as  they  were  possessed  such  com- 
fortable and  well-appointed  dwellings;  for  not  only  had 
they  log-huts  well  jointed  and  carefully  put  together,  but 
many  of  the  comforts  of  civilized  life  were  to  be  seen  in 
the  internal  decorations.  The  reason  for  this  I at  length 
learned  from  the  chief,  in  whose  house  I dwelt,  and  with 
whom  I had  already  succeeded  in  establishing  a sworn 
friendship. 

“About  fifteen  years  previous,  this  bay  was  selected  by 
a party  of  emigrants  as  the  locale  of  a settlement.  They 
had  been  wrecked  on  the  island  of  Anticosti  themselves, 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


Ill 


and  made  their  escape  to  Gasp6  with  such  remnants  of 
their  effects  as  they  could  rescue  from  the  wreck.  There 
they  built  houses  for  themselves,  made  clearing^  in  the 
forest,  and  established  a little  colony,  with  rules  and  regu- 
lations for  its  government.  Happily  for  them,  they  pos- 
sessed within  their  number  almost  every  description  of 
artificer  requisite  for  such  an  undertaking,  their  original 
intention  being  to  found  a settlement  in  Canada;  and  thus 
carpenters,  shoemakers,  weavers,  tailors,  millwrights  being 
all  ready  to  contribute  their  aid  and  assistance  to  one 
another,  the  colony  made  rapid  progress,  and  soon  assumed 
the  appearance  of  a thriving  and  prosperous  place.  The 
forest  abounded  in  wild  deer  and  bears,  the  bay  was  not 
less  rich  in  fish,  while  the  ground,  which  they  sowed  with 
potatoes  and  Indian  corn,  yielded  most  successful  crops; 
and  as  the  creek  was  never  visited  by  sickness,  nothing 
could  surpass  the  success  of  their  labors. 

“Thus  they  lived,  till  in  the  fall  of  the  year  a detach- 
ment of  the  Gaspe  Indians,  who  came  down  every  autumn 
for  the  herring-fishery,  discovered  that  their  territory  was 
occupied,  and  that  an  invading  force  were  in  possession  of 
their  hunting-grounds.  The  result  could  not  be  doubted; 
the  red  men  returned  home  to  their  friends  with  the  news, 
and  speedily  came  back  again  with  reinforcements  of  the 
whole  tribe,  and  made  an  attack  upon  the  settlement.  The 
colonists,  though  not  prepared,  soon  assembled,  and  being 
better  armed,  for  their  firearms  and  cutlasses  had  all  been 
saved,  repelled  their  assailants,  and  having  killed  and 
wounded  several  of  them,  drove  them  back  into  the  forest. 
The  victory,  however  complete,  was  the  first  day  of  their 
misfortunes;  from  that  hour  they  were  never  safe.  Some- 
times a marauding  party  of  red  men  would  dash  into  the 
village  at  nightfall,  and  carry  away  some  of  the  children 
before  their  cries  could  warn  their  parents.  Instead  of 
venturing,  as  before,  into  the  ‘ bush  ’ whenever  they 
pleased,  and  in  small  numbers,  the  emigrants  were  now 
obliged  to  go  with  the  greatest  circumspection  and  cau- 
tion, stationing  scouts  here  and  there,  and,  above  all, 
leaving  a strong  garrison  to  protect  the  settlement  against 
attack  in  their  absence.  Fear  and  distrust  prevailed 


112 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


everywhere,  and  instead  of  the  peace  and  prosperity  that 
attended  the  first  year  of  their  labors,  the  land  now  re- 
mained but  half  tilled,  the  hunting  yielded  scarcely  any 
benefit,  and  all  their  efforts  were  directed  to  their  safety, 
and  their  time  consumed  in  erecting  outworks  and  forts  to 
protect  the  village. 

“While  matters  were  in  this  state,  a large  timber-ship, 
bound  for  England,  struck  on  a reef  of  rocks  at  the  entrance 
of  the  bay.  The  sea  ran  high,  and  a storm  of  wind  from 
the  northwest  soon  rent  her  in  fragments.  The  colonists, 
who  knew  every  portion  of  the  bay  well,  at  the  first  mo- 
ment they  could  venture  put  out  to  the  wreck,  not  how- 
ever to  save  the  lives  and  rescue  the  poor  fellows  who  yet 
clung  to  the  rigging,  but  to  pillage  the  ship  ere  she  went 
to  pieces.  The  expedition  succeeded  far  beyond  their  most 
ardent  hopes,  and  a rich  harvest  of  plunder  resulted  from 
this  venture;  casks  of  powder,  flour,  pork,  and  rum  were 
landed  by  every  tide  at  their  doors,  and  once  more  the 
sounds  of  merriment  and  rejoicing  were  heard  in  the  vil- 
lage. But  how  different  from  before  was  it  ! Then  they 
were  happy  and  contented  settlers,  living  like  one  united 
family  in  brotherly  affection  and  kind  good-will;  now  it 
was  but  the  bond  of  crime  that  bound  them  together,  and 
the  wild  madness  of  intoxication  that  excited  them.  Their 
hunting-grounds  were  no  longer  cared  for;  the  fields,  with 
so  much  labor  rescued  from  the  forest,  were  neglected; 
the  fishing  was  abandoned;  and  a life  given  up  to  the 
most  intemperate  indulgence  succeeded  to  days  of  peace- 
ful labor  and  content.  Not  satisfied  with  mere  defence, 
they  now  carried  the  war  into  the  Indian  settlements, 
and  cruelties  the  most  frightful  ensued  in  their  savage 
reprisals. 

“In  this  dangerous  coast  a winter  never  passed  without 
several  wrecks  occurring;  and  as  the  colonists  now  prac- 
tised every  device,  by  false  signals  and  fires,  to  lure  vessels 
to  their  ruin,  their  infamous  traffic  succeeded  perfectly,  and 
wrecking  became  a mode  of  subsistence  far  more  remunera- 
tive than  their  former  habits  of  quiet  industry. 

“One  long  reef  of  rocks  that  ran  from  the  most  southerly 
point  of  the  bay,  and  called  by  the  Indians  ‘ the  Teeth,  ’ 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


113 


was  the  most  fatal  spot  of  the  whole  coast;  for  while  these 
rocks  stretched  for  above  a mile  to  sea,  and  were  only 
covered  at  high  water,  a strong  land-current  drew  vessels 
towards  them,  which,  with  the  wind  on  shore,  it  was  im- 
possible to  resist.  To  this  fatal  spot  each  eye  was  turned 
at  daybreak,  to  see  if  some  ill-starred  vessel  had  not  struck 
during  the  night;  this  was  the  last  point  each  look  was 
bent  on  as  the  darkness  was  falling;  and  when  the  wind 
howled,  and  the  sea  ran  mountains  high,  and  dashed  its 
white  foam  over  their  little  huts,  then  was  every  one  astir 
in  the  village.  Many  an  anxious  gaze  pierced  through  the 
mist,  hoping  some  white  sail  might  gleam  through  the 
storm,  or  some  bending  spar  show  where  a perishing 
crew  yet  cried  for  help.  The  little  shore  would  then  pre- 
sent a busy  scene;  boats  were  got  out,  coils  of  rope  and 
oars  strewed  on  every  side,  lanterns  flitted  rapidly  from 
place  to  place.  With  what  energy  and  earnestness  they 
moved!  How  their  eyes  gleamed  with  excitement,  and 
how  their  voices  rang  out  in  accents  of  hoarse  command! 
Oh,  how  horrible  to  think  that  the  same  features  of  a 
manly  nature,  — the  bold  and  daring  courage  that  fears 
not  the  rushing  wave  nor  the  sweeping  storm,  the  heroic 
daring  that  can  breast  the  wild  breakers  as  they  splash  on 
the  dark  rocks,  — can  arise  from  impulses  so  opposite,  and 
that  humanity  the  fairest  and  crime  the  blackest  have  but 
the  same  machinery  to  work  with! 

“It  was  on  a dark  November  night;  the  heavy  sough  of  a 
coming  storm  sent  large  and  sullen  waves  on  shore,  where 
they  broke  with  that  low,  hollow  cadence  that  seamen 
recognize  as  boding  ill.  A dense,  thick  fog  obscured  all 
objects  seaward;  and  though  many  scouts  were  out  upon 
the  hills,  they  could  detect  nothing.  Still,  as  the  night 
grew  more  and  more  threatening,  the  wreckers  felt  assured 
a gale  was  coming,  and  already  their  preparation  was  made 
for  the  approaching  time.  Hour  after  hour  passed  by;  but 
though  the  gale  increased,  and  blew  with  violence  on  the 
shore,  nothing  could  be  seen.  Towards  midnight,  how- 
ever, a scout  came  in  to  say  that  he  thought  he  could 
detect  at  intervals,  through  the  dense  mist  and  spray,  a 
gleaming  light  in  the  direction  of  ‘ the  Teeth.’  The  drift 


114 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


was  too  great  to  make  it  clearly  perceptible,  but  still  he 
persisted  he  had  seen  something. 

“A  party  was  soon  assembled  on  the  beach,  their  eyes 
turned  towards  the  fatal  rocks,  which  at  low  water  rose 
some  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  above  the  surface.  They  gazed 
long  and  anxiously;  but  nothing  could  they  make  out,  till, 
as  they  were  turning  away,  one  cried  out,  ‘Ay,  see  there! 
there  it  is  now!  ’ and  as  he  spoke,  a red  forked  flame  shot 
up  through  the  drifting  spray,  and  threw  a lurid  flash  upon 
the  dark  sea.  It  died  away  almost  as  quickly,  and  though 
seen  at  intervals  again,  it  seemed  ever  to  wax  fainter  and 
fainter.  ‘ She ’s  on  fire!  ’ cried  one.  ‘ No,  no;  it ’s  a dis- 
tress signal,’  said  another.  ‘One  thing  is  certain,’  cried  a 
third,  ‘ the  craft  that ’s  on  the  Teeth  on  such  a night  as 
this  won’t  get  off  very  readily;  and  so,  lads,  be  alive  and 
run  out  the  boats ! ’ 

“The  little  colony  was  soon  astir.  It  was  a race  of 
avarice,  too;  for  latterly  the  settlement  had  been  broken 
up  by  feuds  and  jealousies  into  different  factions,  and  each 
strove  to  overreach  the  other.  In  less  than  half  an  hour 
eight  boats  were  out,  and  breasting  the  white  breakers 
headed  out  to  sea.  All  save  the  old  and  decrepit,  the 
women  and  children,  were  away;  and  even  they  stood 
watching  on  the  shore,  following  with  their  eyes  the  boats 
in  which  they  felt  most  interested. 

“At  last  they  disappeared  in  the  gloom;  not  a trace 
could  be  seen  of  them,  nor  did  the  wind  carry  back  their 
voices,  over  which  the  raging  storm  was  now  howling.  A 
few  still  remained,  straining  their  eye-balls  towards  the 
spot  where  the  light  was  seen,  the  others  had  returned 
towards  the  village;  when  all  of  a sudden  a frightful  yell, 
a long-sustained  and  terrible  cry,  arose  from  the  huts,  and 
the  same  instant  a blaze  burst  forth,  and  rose  into  a red 
column  towards  the  sky.  The  Indians  were  upon  them. 
The  war-shout  — that  dreadful  sound  they  knew  too  well 
— resounded  on  every  side.  Then  began  a massacre  which 
nothing  in  description  can  convey.  The  dreadful  rage  of 
the  vengeful  savage  — long  pent  up,  long  provoked  — had 
now  its  time  for  vengeance.  The  tomahawk  and  the  scalp- 
ing-knife ran  red  with  blood,  as  women  and  infants  rushed 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


115 


madly  hither  and  thither  in  flight.  Old  men  lay  weltering 
in  their  gore  beside  their  daughters  and  grandchildren; 
while  the  wild  red  men,  unsated  with  slaughter,  tore  the 
mangled  corpses  as  they  lay,  and  bathed  themselves  in 
blood. 

“But  not  there  did  the  massacre  end.  The  flame  that 
gleamed  from  ‘ the  Teeth  ’ rocks  was  but  an  Indian  de- 
vice to  draw  the  wreckers  out  to  sea.  A pine-wood  Are 
had  been  lighted  on  the  tallest  cliff  at  low  water  to  attract 
their  attention,  by  some  savages  in  canoes,  and  left  to  burn 
away  slowly  during  the  night.  Deceived  and  baffled,  the 
wreckers  made  towards  their  own  shore,  to  which  already 
their  eyes  were  turned  in  terror,  for  the  red  blaze  of  the 
burning  huts  was  seen,  miles  off,  in  the  bay.  Scarcely  had 
the  first  boat  neared  the  beach,  when  a volley  of  fire-arms 
was  poured  in  upon  her,  while  the  war-cry  that  rose  above 
it  told  the  white  settlers  that  their  hour  was  come.  The 
Indians  were  several  hundreds  in  number,  armed  to  the 
teeth;  the  white  men  few,  and  without  a single  weapon. 
Contest,  it  was  none.  The  slaughter  scarce  lasted  many 
minutes,  for  ere  the  flame  from  the  distant  rock  subsided, 
the  last  white  man  lay  a corpse  on  the  bloody  strand. 
Such  was  the  terrible  retribution  that  followed  on  crime, 
and  at  the  very  moment,  too,  when  the  cruel  hearts  of 
the  wreckers  were  bent  on  its  perpetration. 

“This  tale,  which  was  told  me  in  a broken  jargon  between 
Canadian-French  and  English,  concluded  with  words  which 
were  not  to  me  at  the  time  the  least  shocking  part  of  the 
story,  as  the  narrator,  with  glistening  eyes,  and  in  a voice 
whose  guttural  tones  seemed  almost  too  thick  for  utterance, 
said,  ‘ It  was  I that  planned  it!  ’ 

“You  will  ask  me  by  what  chance  did  I escape  with  life 
among  such  a tribe.  An  accident  — the  merest  accident  — 
saved  me.  When  a smuggler,  as  I have  already  told  you  I 
was,  I once,  when  becalmed  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  got  one 
of  the  sailors  to  tattoo  my  arm  with  gunpowder,  a very 
common  practice  at  sea.  The  operator  had  been  in  the 
North  American  trade,  and  had  passed  ten  years  as  a pris- 
oner among  the  Indians,  bringing  away  with  him  innu- 
merable recollections  of  their  habits  and  customs.  Among 


116 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


others,  their  strange  idols  had  made  a great  impression  on 
his  mind;  and  as  I gave  him  a discretionary  power  as  to 
the  frescos  he  was  to  adorn  me  with,  he  painted  a most 
American-looking  savage,  with  two  faces  on  his  head,  his 
body  all  stuck  over  with  arrows  and  spear-points,  while  he, 
apparently  unmoved  by  such  visitors,  was  skipping  about 
in  something  that  might  be  a war-dance. 

“This,  with  all  its  appropriate  colors  (for,  as  the  her- 
aldry folk  say,  ‘ it  was  proper’),  was  a very  conspicuous 
object  on  my  arm,  and  no  sooner  seen  by  the  chief  than 
he  immediately  knelt  down  beside  me,  dressed  my  wounds, 
and  tended  me;  while  the  rest  of  the  tribe,  recognizing  me 
as  one  whose  existence  was  charmed,  showed  me  every 
manner  of  respect,  and  even  devotion.  Indeed,  I soon 
felt  my  popularity  to  be  my  greatest  difficulty;  for  what- 
ever great  event  was  going  forward  among  the  tribe,  it 
became  the  etiquette  to  consult  me  on  it  as  a species  of 
soothsayer,  — and  never  was  a prophet  more  sorely  tested. 
Sometimes  it  was  a question  of  the  whale-fishery, — whether 
‘ bottle-noses  ’ or  £ sulphur-bottoms  ’ were  coming  up  the 
bay,  and  whether  in  the  then  season  it  was  safe  or  not  to 
strike  the  i calf  whales  ’ first;  now  it  was  a disputed  point 
as  to  the  condition  of  bears;  or,  worse  than  either,  a little 
marauding  party  would  be  undertaken  into  a neighbor’s 
premises,  where  I was  expected  to  perform  a very  leading 
part,  which,  not  having  the  same  strong  convictions  of  my 
invulnerable  nature  as  my  worthy  associates,  I undertook 
with  as  few  feelings  of  satisfaction  as  you  may  imagine. 
But  these  were  not  all ; offers  of  marriage  from  many  noble 
families  pressed  me  on  every  side,  and  though  polygamy 
to  any  extent  was  permissible,  I never  could  persuade  my- 
self to  make  my  fortune  in  this  manner.  The  ladies,  too, 
I am  bound  to  say,  were  not  so  seductive  as  to  endanger 
my  principles;  flattened  heads,  bent-down  noses,  and  lip- 
stones  are  very  strong  antidotes  to  the  tender  passion,  and 
I was  obliged  to  declare  that  I was  compelled  by  a vow  not 
to  marry  for  three  moons.  I dared  not  venture  on  a longer 
period  of  amnesty,  lest  I should  excite  suspicion  of  any 
insult  to  them  on  a point  where  their  vengeance  never  for- 
gives; and  I hoped  that  ere  that  time  elapsed  I should  be 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


117 


able  to  make  my  escape,  — though  how  or  when  or  where 
to  were  points  I could  not  possibly  guess  at. 

“Before  the  half  of  my  probation  had  expired,  we  were 
visited  by  an  old  Indian  of  a distant  tribe,  — a strange  old 
fellow  he  was,  clothed  in  goats’  skins,  and  wearing  strong 
leather  boots  and  rackets  (snow-shoes),  a felt  hat,  and  a 
kind  of  leather  sack  strapped  on  his  back,  and  secured  by 
a lock.  This  singular-looking  fellow  was  ‘ the  post.’  He 
travelled  once  a year  from  a small  settlement  near  Miri- 
michi  to  Quebec  and  back,  carrying  the  letters  to  and  from 
these  places,  — a distance  of  something  like  seven  hundred 
miles,  which  he  accomplished  entirely  on  foot,  a great  part 
of  it  through  dense  forests  and  over  wild  uninhabited 
prairies,  passing  through  the  hunting-grounds  of  several 
hostile  tribes,  fording  rivers  and  climbing  mountains,  and 
all  for  the  moderate  payment  of  ten  pounds  a year,  half  of 
which  he  spent  in  rum  before  he  left  Quebec  and  while 
waiting  for  the  return  mail;  and,  strangest  of  all,  though 
for  forty  years  he  had  continued  to  perform  this  journey, 
not  only  no  accident  had  ever  occurred  to  the  letters,  but 
he  himself  was  never  known  to  be  behind  his  appointed 
time  at  his  destination. 

“Tahata,  for  such  was  his  name,  was  however  a character 
of  great  interest,  even  to  the  barbarous  tribes  through  whose 
territories  he  passed,  lie  was  a species  of  savage  news- 
paper, recounting  various  details  respecting  the  hunting 
and  fishing  seasons,  the  price  of  skins  at  Quebec  or  Mon- 
treal, what  was  the  peltry  most  in  request,  and  how  it 
would  bring  its  best  price.  Cautiously  abstaining  from 
the  local  politics  of  these  small  states,  his  information 
only  bore  on  such  topics  as  are  generally  useful  and  inter- 
esting, and  never  for  a moment  partook  of  any  partisan 
character;  besides,  he  had  ever  some  petty  commission  or 
other  from  the  squaws  to  discharge  at  Quebec.  There  was 
an  amber  bead  or  a tin  ornament,  a bit  of  red  ribbon  or  a 
glass  button,  or  some  such  valuable,  everywhere  he  went; 
and  his  coming  was  an  event  as  much  longed  and  looked 
for  as  any  other  that  marked  their  monotonous  existence. 

“Tahata  rested  for  a few  days  at  our  village,  when  I 
learned  these  few  particulars  of  his  life,  and  at  once 


118 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


resolved,  come  what  might,  to  make  my  escape  with  him, 
and,  if  possible,  to  reach  Quebec.  An  opportunity  fortu- 
nately soon  offered  for  my  doing  so  with  facility.  The 
day  of  the  courier’s  departure  was  fixed  for  a great  fishing 
excursion,  on  which  the  tribe  were  to  be  absent  for  several 
days.  Affecting  illness,  I remained  on  shore,  and  never 
stirred  from  the  wigwam  till  the  last  canoe  had  disappeared 
from  sight;  then  I slowly  sauntered  out,  and  telling  the 
squaws  that  I would  stroll  about  for  an  hour  or  so  to 
breathe  the  air,  I followed  the  track  which  was  pointed 
out  to  me  by  the  courier,  who  had  departed  early  on  the 
same  morning.  Before  sunset  I came  up  with  my  friend, 
and  with  a heart  overflowing  with  delight  sat  down  to 
partake  of  the  little  supper  he  had  provided  for  our  first 
day’s  journey;  after  that,  each  day  was  to  take  care  of 
itself. 

“ Then  began  a series  of  adventures,  to  which  all  I have 
hitherto  told  you  are  as  nothing.  It  was  the  wild  life  of 
the  prairies  in  companionship  with  one  who  felt  as  much 
at  home  in  the  recesses  of  a pine  forest  as  ever  I did  in  the 
snug  corner  of  mine  inn.  Now  it  was  a night  spent  under 
the  starry  sky,  beside  some  clear  river’s  bank,  where  the 
fish  lay  motionless  beneath  the  red  glare  of  our  watch-fire; 
now  we  bivouacked  in  a gloomy  forest,  planting  stockades 
around  to  keep  off  the  wild  beasts;  then  we  would  chance 
upon  some  small  Indian  settlement,  where  we  were  regaled 
with  hospitality,  and  spent  half  the  night  listening  to  the 
low  chant  of  a red  man’s  song,  as  he  deplored  the  down- 
fall of  his  nation  and  the  loss  of  their  hunting-grounds. 
Through  all,  my  guide  preserved  the  steady  equability  of 
one  who  was  travelling  a well-worn  path, — some  notched 
tree,  some  small  stone-heap,  some  fissured  rock,  being  his 
guide  through  wastes  where  it  seemed  to  me  no  human  foot 
had  ever  trod.  He  lightened  the  road  with  many  a song 
and  many  a story,  — the  latter  always  displaying  some 
curious  trait  of  his  people,  whose  high  sense  of  truth  and 
unswerving  fidelity  to  their  word,  once  pledged,  appeared 
to  be  an  invariable  feature  in  every  narrative;  and  though 
he  could  well  account  for  the  feeling  that  makes  a man 
more  attached  to  his  own  nation,  he  more  than  once  half 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


119 


expressed  his  surprise,  how,  having  lived  among  the  simple- 
minded  children  of  the  forest,  I could  ever  return  to  the 
haunts  of  the  plotting  and  designing  white  men. 

“This  story  of  mine,”  continued  Mr.  O’Kelly,  “has 
somehow  spun  itself  out  far  more  than  I intended.  My 
desire  was  to  show  you  briefly  in  what  strange  and  dissim- 
ilar situations  I have  been  thrown  in  life;  how  1 have  lived 
among  every  rank  and  class,  at  home  and  abroad,  in  com- 
parative affluence,  in  narrow  poverty;  how  I have  looked 
on  at  the  world,  in  all  its  gala  dress  of  wealth  and  rank 
and  beauty,  of  power,  of  station,  and  command  of  intel- 
lect; and  how  1 have  seen  it  poor  and  mean  and  naked,  the 
companion  of  gloomy  solitudgs  and  the  denizen  of  pathless 
forests,  and  yet  found  the  same  human  passions,  the  same 
love  and  hate,  the  same  jealousy  and  fear,  courage  and 
daring,  the  same  desire  for  power  and  the  same  wish  to 
govern  in  the  red  Indian  of  the  prairie  as  in  the  star- 
bedecked  noble  of  Europe.  The  proudest  rank  of  civilized 
life  has  no  higher  boast  than  in  the  practice  of  such  virtues 
as  I have  seen  rife  among  the  wild  dwellers  in  the  dark 
forest.  Long  habit  of  moving  thus  among  my  fellow-men 
has  worn  off  much  of  that  conventional  reverence  for  class 
which  forms  the  standing  point  of  all  our  education  at 
home.  The  tarred  and  weather-beaten  sailor,  if  he  be  but 
a pleasant  fellow,  and  has  seen  life,  is  to  me  as  agreeable 
a companion  as  the  greatest  admiral  that  ever  trod  a quar- 
ter-deck. My  delight  has  been  thus  for  many  a year  back 
to  ramble  through  the  world,  and  look  on  its  game,  like 
one  who  sits  before  the  curtain,  and  has  no  concern  with 
the  actors  save  in  so  far  as  they  amuse  him. 

“There  is  no  cynicism  in  this.  No  one  enjoys  life  more 
than  I do.  Music  is  a passion  with  me;  in  painting  I take 
the  greatest  delight,  and  beauty  has  still  her  charm  for  me. 
Society  never  was  a greater  pleasure ; scenery  can  give  me  a 
sense  of  happiness  which  none  but  solitary  men  ever  feel, 
— yet  it  is  less  as  one  indentified  with  these  than  as  a mere 
spectator.  All  this  is  selfish  and  egotistical,  you  will  say; 
and  so  it  is.  But  then,  think  what  chance  has  one  like  me 
of  any  other  pleasure!  To  how  many  annoyances  should 


120 


ARTHUR  O’LEA! 


I expose  myself  if  I adopted  a different  career!  Think  of 
the  thousand  inquiries  of,  Who  is  he;  What  is  his  family; 
Where  did  he  come  from;  What  are  his  means?  — and  all 
such  queries,  which  would  beset  me  were  I the  respectable 
denizen  of  one  of  your  cities.  Without  some  position, 
some  rank,  some  home-settled  place  in  society,  you  give  a 
man  nothing,  — he  can  neither  have  friend  nor  home.  Now, 
I am  a wanderer;  my  choice  of  life  happily  took  an  humble 
turn.  I have  placed  myself  in  a good  situation  for  seeing 
the  game;  and  I am  not  too  fastidious  if  I get  somewhat 
crushed  by  the  company  about  me.  But  now  to  finish  this 
long  story,  for  1 see  the  day  is  breaking,  and  I must  leave 
Antwerp  by  ten  o’clock. 

“ At  last,  then,  we  reached  Quebec.  It  was  on  a bright, 
clear,  frosty  day  in  December,  when  all  the  world  was  astir, 
— sledges  flying  here  and  there;  men  slipping  along  in 
rackets;  women  wrapped  up  in  furs,  sitting  snugly  in 
chairs,  and  pushed  along  the  ice  some  ten  or  twelve  miles 
the  hour,  — all  gay,  all  lively,  and  all  merry-looking,  while 
I and  my  Indian  friend  bustled  our  way  through  the  crowd 
towards  the  post-office.  He  was  a well-known  character, 
and  many  a friendly  nod  and  knowing  shake  of  the  head 
welcomed  him  as  he  passed  along.  I however  was  an 
object  of  no  common  astonishment,  even  in  a town  where 
every  variety  of  costume,  from  full  dress  to  almost  naked- 
ness, was  to  be  met  with  daily.  Still,  something  remained 
as  a novelty,  and  it  would  seem  I had  hit  on  it.  Imagine, 
then,  an  old  and  ill-used  foraging  cap,  drawn  down  over  a 
red  night-cap,  from  beneath  which  my  hair  descended 
straight,  somewhere  about  a foqt  in  length;  beard  and 
mustaches  to  match;  a red  uniform  coat,  patched  with 
brown  seal -skin,  and  surmounted  by  a kind  of  blanket  of 
buffalo  hide;  a pair  of  wampum  shorts,  decorated  with  tin 
and  copper,  after  the  manner  of  a marqueterie  table;  gray 
stockings,  gartered  with  fish-skin;  and  moccasins  made 
after  the  fashion  of  high-lows,  an  invention  of  my  own, 
which  I trust  are  still  known  as  ‘O’ Kelly ’s’  among  my 
friends  the  red  men. 

“That  I was  not  an  Indian  was  sufficiently  apparent:  if 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


121 


by  nothing  else,  the  gingerly  delicacy  with  which  I trod  the 
pavement  after  a promenade  of  seven  hundred  miles  would 
have  shown  it;  and  yet  there  was  an  evident  reluctance  on 
all  sides  to  acknowledge  me  as  one  of  themselves.  The 
crowd  that  followed  our  steps  had  by  this  time  attracted 
the  attention  of  some  officers,  who  stopped  to  see  what  was 
going  forward,  when  I recognized  the  major  of  my  own  regi- 
ment among  the  number.  I saw,  however,  that  he  did  not 
remember  me,  and  hesitated  with  myself  whether  I should 
return  to  my  old  servitude.  The  thought  that  no  mode  of 
subsistence  was  open  to  me,  that  I was  not  exactly  prepos- 
sessing enough  to  make  my  way  in  the  world  by  artificial  ad- 
vantages, decided  the  question,  and  I accosted  him  at  once. 

“ I will  not  stop  to  paint  the  astonishment  of  the  officer, 
nor  shall  I dwell  on  the  few  events  which  followed  the 
recognition;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  same  evening  I 
received  my  appointment,  not  as  a sergeant,  but  as  regi- 
mental interpreter  between  our  people  and  the  Indians, 
with  whom  we  were  then  in  alliance  against  the  Yankees. 
The  regiment  soon  left  Quebec  for  Trois  Rivieres,  where 
my  ambassadorial  functions  were  immediately  called  into 
play:  not,  I am  bound  to  confess,  under  such  weighty  and 
onerous  responsibilities  as  I had  been  led  to  suspect  would 
ensue  between  two  powerful  nations,  but  on  matters  of  less 
moment  and  fully  as  much  difficulty;  namely,  the  barter 
of  old  regimental  coats  and  caps  for  bows  and  arrows,  the 
exchange  of  rum  and  gunpowder  for  moccasins  and  wam- 
pum ornaments,  — in  a word,  the  regulation  of  an  Anglo- 
Indian  tariff,  which  accurately  defined  the  value  of 
everything,  from  a black  fox-skin  to  a pair  of  old  gaiters, 
from  an  Indian  tomahawk  to  a tooth-pick. 

“ In  addition  to  these  fiscal  regulations  I drew  up  a 
criminal  code,  which  in  simplicity  at  least  might  vie  with 
any  known  system  of  legislation,  by  which  it  was  clearly 
laid  down  that  any  unknown  quantity  of  Indians  were  only 
equal  to  the  slightest  inconvenience  incurred  or  discomfort 
endured  by  an  English  officer;  that  the  condescension  of 
any  intercourse  with  them  was  a circumstance  of  the 
greatest  possible  value,  and  its  withdrawal  the  highest 
punishment.  A few  other  axioms  of  the  like  nature 


122 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


greatly  facilitated  all  bargains,  and  promoted  universal 
good  feeling.  Occasionally  a knotty  point  would  arise, 
which  somewhat  puzzled  me  to  determine.  Now  and  then 
some  Indian  prejudice,  some  superstition  of  the  tribe, 
would  oppose  a barrier  to  the  summary  process  of  my 
cheap  justice;  but  then  a little  adroitness  and  dexterity 
could  soon  reconcile  matters,  and  as  I had  no  fear  that  my 
decisions  were  to  be  assumed  as  precedents,  and  still  less 
dread  of  their  being  rescinded  by  a higher  court,  I cut 
boldly,  and  generally  severed  the  difficulty  at  a blow. 

“My  life  was  now  a pleasant  one  enough;  for  our  officers 
treated  me  on  terms  of  familiarity,  which  gradually  grew 
into  intimacy,  as  our  quarters  were  in  remote  stations,  and 
as  they  perceived  that  1 possessed  a certain  amount  of  educa- 
tion, which  it  is  no  flattery  to  say  exceeded  their  own.  My 
old  qualities  of  convivialism  also  gave  me  considerable  aid; 
and  as  I had  neither  forgotten  how  to  compose  a song  nor 
sing  it  afterwards,  I was  rather  a piece  of  good  fortune  in 
this  solitary  and  monotonous  state  of  life.  Etiquette  pre- 
vented my  being  asked  to  the  mess,  but  most  generously 
nothing  interfered  with  their  coining  over  to  my  wigwam 
almost  every  evening,  and  taking  share  of  a bowl  of  san- 
garee  and  a pipe,  — kindnesses  I did  my  uttermost  to 
repay,  by  putting  in  requisition  all  the  amusing  talents 
I possessed;  and  certainly  never  did  a man  endeavor  more 
for  great  success  in  life,  nor  give  himself  greater  toil,  than 
did  I,  to  make  time  pass  over  pleasantly  to  some  half-dozen 
silly  subalterns,  a bloated  captain  or  two,  and  a plethoric 
old  snuff-taking  major,  who  dreamed  of  nothing  but  rappee, 
punch,  and  promotion.  Still,  like  all  men  in  an  ambiguous 
or  a false  position,  I felt  flattered  by  the  companionship  of 
people  whom  in  my  heart  I thoroughly  despised  and  looked 
down  upon;  and  felt  myself  honored  by  the  society  of  the 
most  thick-headed  set  of  noodles  ever  a man  sat  down  with, 
— ay,  and  laughed  at  their  flat  witticisms  and  their  old 
stale  jokes,  and  often  threw  out  hints  for  bons  mots,  which 
if  they  caught  I immediately  applauded,  and  went  about, 
saying,  ‘Did  you  hear  Jones’s  last?  — Do  you  know 
what  the  major  said  this  morning?’  Bless  my  heart! 
what  a time  it  was!  Truth  will  out;  the  old  tuft-hunting 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


123 


leaven  was  strong  in  me,  even  yet;  hardship  and  roughing 
had  not  effaced  it  from  my  disposition;  one  more  lesson 
was  wanting,  and  I got  it. 

“Among  my  visitors  was  an  old  captain  of  the  rough 
school  of  military  habit,  with  all  the  dry  jokes  of  the 
recruiting  service,  and  all  the  coarseness  which  a life 
spent  for  the  most  part  in  remote  stations  and  small 
detachments  is  sure  to  impart.  This  old  fellow  — Mat 
Hubbart,  a well-known  name  in  the  Glengarries  — had  the 
greatest  partiality  for  practical  jokes,  and  could  calculate 
to  a nicety  the  precise  amount  of  a liberty  which  any  man’s 
rank  in  the  service  permitted,  without  the  risk  of  being 
called  to  account;  and  the  same  scale  of  equivalents  by 
which  he  established  the  nomenclature  for  female  rank 
in  the  army  was  regarded  by  him  as  the  test  for  those 
licenses  he  permitted  himself  to  take  with  any  man  be- 
neath him;  and  as  he  spoke  of  the  colonel’s  ‘lady,’  the 
major’s  ‘wife,’  the  captain’s  ‘woman,’  the  lieutenant’s 
‘thing,’  so  did  he  graduate  his  conduct  to  the  husbands, 
never  transgressing  for  a moment  on  the  grade  by  any 
undue  familiarity  or  any  unwonted  freedom.  With  me, 
of  course,  his  powers  were  discretionary,  or  rather  had  no 
discretion  whatever.  I was  a kind  of  military  outlaw  that 
any  man  might  shoot  at,  and  certainly  he  spared  not  his 
powder  in  my  behalf. 

“ Among  the  few  relics  of  my  Indian  life  was  a bear-skin 
cap  and  hood,  which  I prized  highly.  It  was  a present 
from  my  old  guide  — his  parting  gift  — when  I put  into 
his  hands  the  last  few  pieces  of  silver  I possessed  in  the 
world.  This  was  then  to  me  a thing  which,  as  I had  met 
with  not  many  kindnesses  in  the  world,  I valued  at  some- 
thing far  beyond  its  mere  price,  and  would  rather  have 
parted  with  any  or  everything  I possessed  than  lose  it. 
Well,  one  day  on  my  return  from  a fishing  excursion,  as  I 
was  passing  the  door  of  the  mess-room,  what  should  I see 
but  a poor  idiot  that  frequented  the  barrack  dressed  in  my 
bear-skin. 

“ ‘ Halloa,  Rokey,  ’ said  I,  ‘ where  did  you  get  that?  ’ 
scarce  able  to  restrain  my  temper. 

“ ‘ The  captain  gave  it  me,  ’ said  the  fellow,  touching  his 


124 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


cap,  with  a grateful  look  towards  the  mess-room  window, 
where  I saw  Captain  Hubbart  standing,  convulsed  with 
laughter. 

“ ‘ Impossible ! ’ said  I,  yet  half  fearing  the  truth  of  his 
assertion.  ‘ The  captain  could  n’t  give  away  what ’s  mine 
and  not  his.  ’ 

Yes,  but  he  did  though,’  said  the  fool,  ‘ and  told  me 
too  he  ’d  make  me  the  “talk  man”  with  the  Indians  if  you 
didn’t  behave  better  in  future.’ 

“ I felt  my  blood  boil  up  as  I heard  these  words.  I saw 
at  once  that  the  joke  was  intended  to  insult  and  offend  me; 
and  probably  it  was  meant  as  a lesson  for  my  presumption 
a few  evenings  before,  since  I had  the  folly,  in  a moment 
of  open-hearted  gayety,  to  speak  of  my  family,  and  per- 
haps to  boast  of  my  having  been  a gentleman.  I hung  my 
head  in  shame,  and  all  my  presence  of  mind  was  too  little 
to  allow  me  to  feign  a look  of  carelessness  as  I walked  by 
the  window,  from  whence  the  coarse  laughter  of  the  cap- 
tain was  now  heard  peal  after  peal.  I shall  not  tell  you 
how  I suffered  when  I reached  my  hut,  and  what  I felt  at 
every  portion  of  this  transaction.  One  thing  forcibly  im- 
pressed itself  upon  my  mind,  — that  the  part  I was  playing 
must  be  an  unworthy  one,  or  I had  never  incurred  such  a 
penalty;  that  if  these  men  associated  with  me,  it  was  on 
terms  which  permitted  all  from  them,  and  nothing  in 
return;  and  for  a while  I deemed  no  vengeance  enough 
to  satisfy  my  wounded  pride.  Happily  for  me  my  thoughts 
took  another  turn,  and  I saw  that  the  position  in  which  I 
had  placed  myself  invited  the  insolence  it  met  with;  and 
that  if  any  man  stoop  to  be  kicked  in  this  world,  he  ’ll 
always  find  some  kind  friend  ready  to  oblige  him  with  the 
compliment.  Had  an  equal  so  treated  me,  my  course  had 
presented  no  difficulty  whatever.  Now,  what  could  I do? 

“While  I pondered  over  these  things,  a corporal  came 
up  to  say  that  a party  of  the  officers  were  about  to  pay  me 
a visit  after  evening  parade,  and  hoped  I ’d  have  something 
for  supper  for  them.  Such  was  the  general  tone  of  their 
invitations;  and  I had  received  in  my  time  above  a hun- 
dred similar  messages,  without  any  other  feeling  than  one 
of  pride  at  my  being  in  a position  to  have  so  many  distin- 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


125 


guished  guests.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  the  announcement 
was  a downright  insult.  My  long-sleeping  pride  suddenly 
awakened;  I felt  all  the  contumely  of  my  condition;  and 
my  spirit,  sunk  for  many  a day  in  the  slavish  observance 
of  a miserable  vanity,  rebelled  against  further  outrage. 

I muttered  a hasty  4 all  right  ’ to  the  soldier,  and  turned 
away  to  meditate  on  some  scheme  of  vengeance. 

“Having  given  directions  to  my  Indian  follower,  a half- 
breed  fellow  of  the  most  cunning  description,  to  have  all 
ready  in  the  wigwam,  I wandered  into  the  woods.  To  no 
use  was  it  that  I thought  over  my  grievance;  nothing  pre- 
sented itself  in  any  shape  as  a vindication  of  my  wounded 
feelings,  nor  could  I see  how  anything  short  of  ridicule 
could  ensue  from  all  mention  of  the  transaction.  The 
clanking  sound  of  an  Indian  drum  broke  on  my  musings, 
and  told  me  that  the  party  were  assembled,  and  on  my 
entering  the  wigwam  I found  them  all  waiting  for  me. 
There  were  full  a dozen ; many  who  had  never  done  me  the 
honor  of  a visit  previously,  came  on  this  occasion  to  enjoy 
the  laugh  at  my  expense  the  captain’s  joke  was  sure  to 
excite.  Husbanding  their  resources,  they  talked  only 
about  indifferent  matters,  — the  gossip  and  chit-chat  of 
the  day,  — but  still  with  such  a secret  air  of  something 
to  come,  that  even  an  ignorant  observer  could  notice  that 
there  was  in  reserve  somewhat  that  must  abide  its  time  for 
development.  By  mere  accident  I overheard  the  captain 
whisper,  in  reply  to  a question  of  one  of  the  subalterns, 
‘No,  no,  not  now;  wait  till  we  have  the  punch  up.’  I 
guessed  at  once  that  such  was  the  period  when  they  pro- 
posed to  discuss  the  joke  played  off  at  my  cost,  and  I was 
right;  for  no  sooner  had  the  large  wooden  bowl  of  san- 
garee  made  its  appearance,  than  Hubbart,  filling  his  glass, 
proposed  a bumper  to  our  new  ally,  Rokey.  A cheer 
drowned  half  his  speech,  which  ended  in  a roar  of  laugh- 
ter, as  the  individual  so  complimented  stood  at  the  door 
of  the  wigwam,  dressed  out  in  full  costume  with  my 
bear-skin. 

“ I had  just  time  to  whisper  a command  to  my  Indian 
imp,  concluding  with  an  order  for  another  bowl  of  san- 
garee,  before  the  burst  of  merriment  had  subsided;  a 


126 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


hail-storm  of  jokes,  many  poor  enough,  but  still  cause  for 
laughter,  now  pelted  me  on  every  side.  My  generosity 
was  lauded,  my  good  taste  extolled,  and  as  many  imperti- 
nences as  could  well  be  offered  up  to  a man  at  his  own 
table  went  the  round  of  the  party.  dSTo  allusion  was 
spared  either  to  my  humble  position  as  interpreter  to  the 
force,  or  my  former  life  among  the  Indians,  to  furnish  food 
for  joke.  Even  my  family  — of  whom,  as  I have  men- 
tioned, I had  foolishly  spoken  to  them  lately  — they  in- 
troduced into  their  tirade  of  attack  and  ridicule,  which 
nothing  but  a sense  of  coming  vengeance  could  have 
enabled  me  to  endure. 

“ ‘ Come,  come,  ’ said  one,  ‘ the  bowl  is  empty.  I say, 
O’Kelly,  if  you  wish  us  to  be  agreeable,  as  I bn  certain 
you  find  us,  will  you  order  a fresh  supply?  ’ 

Most  willingly,’  said  I;  ‘ but  there  is  just  enough  left 
in  the  old  bowl  to  drink  the  health  of  Captain  Hubbart,  to 
whom  we  are  certainly  indebted  for  most  of  the  amusement 
of  the  evening.  Now,  therefore,  if  you  please,  with  all  the 
honors,  gentlemen;  for  let  me  say,  in  no  one  quality  has 
he  his  superior  in  the  regiment.  His  wit  we  can  all  appre- 
ciate; his  ingenuity  I can  speak  to;  his  generosity,  — you 
have  lauded  mine , but  think  of  Iris.  ’ 

“ As  I spoke  I pointed  to  the  door,  where  my  ferocious- 
looking  Indian  stood  in  all  his  war-paint,  wearing  on  his 
head  the  full-dress  cocked-hat  of  the  captain,  while  over 
his  shoulders  was  thrown  his  large  blue  military  cloak, 
upon  which  he  had  skilfully  contrived  to  make  a hasty 
decoration  of  brass  ornaments  and  wild-bird’s  feathers. 
‘Look  there!’  said  I,  exultingly,  as  the  fellow  nodded 
his  plumed  hat  and  turned  majestically  round  to  be  fully 
admired. 

Have  you  dared,  sir?’  roared  Hubbart,  frothing  with 
passion  and  clenching  his  fist  towards  me,  — but  a perfect 
cheer  of  laughter  overpowered  his  words.  Many  rolled 
off  their  seats,  and  lay  panting  and  puffing  on  the  ground; 
some  turned  away  half-suffocated  with  their  struggles, 
while  a few,  more  timid  than  the  rest,  endeavored  to  con- 
ceal their  feelings,  and  seemed  half  alarmed  at  the  conse- 
quences of  my  impertinence.  When  the  mirth  had  a little 


T1IE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


127 


subsided,  it  was  remarked  that  Ilubbart  was  gone, — no 
one  bad  seen  bow  or  when,  but  he  was  no  longer  among  us. 

Come,  gentlemen,’  said  I,  ‘ the  new  bowl  is  ready  for 
you,  and  your  toast  is  not  yet  drunk.  All  going  so  early? 
Why,  it ’s  not  eleven  yet.’ 

“But  so  it  was.  The  impulse  of  merriment  over,  the 
esprit  ile  corps  came  back  in  all  its  force,  and  the  man 
whose  feelings  they  had  not  scrupled  to  outrage  and  insult 
they  turned  on  the  very  moment  he  had  the  courage  to 
assert  his  honor.  One  by  one  passed  out, — some  with  a 
cool  nod,  others  with  a mere  look;  many  never  even  noticed 
me  at  all;  and  one,  the  last  I believe,  dropping  a little 
behind,  whispered  as  he  went,  ‘ Sorry  for  you,  faith,  but 
all  your  own  doing,  though.’ 

“ ‘ My  own  doing ! ’ said  I,  in  bitterness,  as  I sat  me 
down  at  the  door  of  the  wigwam.  ‘ My  own  doing!  ’ and 
the  words  ate  into  my  very  heart’s  core.  Heaven  knows, 
had  any  one  of  them  who  left  me  but  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  me  then  as  I sat,  — my  head  buried  in  my  hands, 
my  frame  trembling  with  strong  passion,  — he  had  formed 
a most  false  estimate  of  my  feelings.  In  all  likelihood  he 
would  have  regarded  me  as  a man  sorrowing  over  a lost 
position  in  society;  grieved  at  the  mistaken  vanity  that 
made  him  presume  upon  those  who  associated  with  him  by 
grace  especial,  and  never  on  terms  of  equality.  Nothing 
in  the  world  was  then  further  from  my  heart.  No,  my 
humiliation  had  another  source;  my  sorrowing  penetrated 
into  a deeper  soil.  I awoke  to  the  conviction  that  my 
position  was  such  that  even  the  temporary  countenance 
they  gave  me  by  their  society  was  to  be  deemed  my 
greatest  honor,  as  its  withdrawal  should  be  my  deepest 
disgrace;  that  these  poor  heartless,  brainless  fools  for 
whom  I taxed  my  time,  my  intellect,  and  my  means,  were 
in  the  light  of  patrons  to  me.  Let  any  man  who  has  felt 
what  it  is  to  live  among  those  on  whose  capacity  he  has 
looked  down,  while  he  has  been  obliged  to  pay  homage  to 
their  rank, — whose  society  he  has  frequented,  not  for 
pleasure  nor  enjoyment;  not  for  the  charm  of  social  inter- 
course or  the  interchange  of  friendly  feeling,  but  for  the 
mere  vulgar  object  that  he  might  seem  to  others  to  be  in  a 


i 28 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


position  to  which  he  had  no  claim,  to  be  intimate  when  he 
was  only  endured,  to  be  on  terms  of  ease  when  he  was 
barely  admitted, — let  him  sympathize  with  me.  Now  I 
awoke  to  the  full  knowledge  of  my  state,  and  saw  myself 
at  last  in  a true  light.  ‘My  own  doing!’  repeated  I to 
myself.  ‘ Would  it  had  been  so  many  a day  since,  ere  I 
lost  self-respect,  ere  I had  felt  the  humiliation  I now  feel.’ 

You  are  under  arrest,  sir,’  said  the  sergeant,  as,  with 
a party  of  soldiers,  he  stood  prepared  to  accompany  me  to 
the  quarters. 

Under  arrest!  By  whose  orders?  ’ 

“‘  The  colonel’s  orders,’  said  the  man,  briefly,  and  in  a 
voice  that  showed  I was  to  expect  little  compassion  from 
one  of  a class  who  had  long  regarded  me  as  an  upstart 
giving  himself  airs  unbecoming  his  condition. 

“ My  imprisonment,  of  which  I dared  not  ask  the  reason, 
gave  me  time  to  meditate  on  my  fortunes  and  think  over 
the  vicissitudes  of  my  life;  to  reflect  on  the  errors  which 
had  rendered  abortive  every  chance  of  success  in  whatever 
career  I adopted;  but,  more  than  all,  to  consider  how  poor 
were  all  my  hopes  of  happiness  in  the  road  I had  chosen, 
while  I dedicated  to  the  amusement  of  others  the  qualities 
which  if  cultivated  for  myself  might  be  made  sources  of 
contentment  and  pleasure.  If  I seem  prolix  in  all  this,  if 
I dwell  on  these  memories,  it  is,  first,  because  few  men 
may  not  reap  a lesson  from  considering  them;  and  again, 
because  on  them  hinged  my  fixture  life. 

“There,  do  you  see  that  little  drawing  yonder?  It  is  a 
sketch,  a mere  sketch,  I made  from  recollection  of  the  room 
I was  confined  'in.  That ’s  the  St.  Lawrence  flowing  be- 
neath the  window;  and  there,  far  in  the  distance,  you  see 
the  tall  cedars  of  the  opposite  bank.  On  that  little  table 
I laid  my  head  the  whole  night  long;  I slept,  too,  and 
soundly;  and  when  I awoke  the  next  day  I was  a changed 
man. 

You  are  relieved  from  arrest.,’  said  the  same  sergeant 
who  conducted  me  to  prison,  ‘ and  the  colonel  desix*es  to 
see  you  on  parade.’ 

“As  I entered  the  square,  the  regiment  was  formed  in 
line,  and  the  officers,  as  usual,  stood  in  a group,  chatting 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


129 


together  in  the  centre.  A half  smile,  quickly  subdued  as 
I came  near,  ran  along  the  party. 

“‘O’Kelly,’  said  the  colonel,  ‘I  have  sent  for  you  to 
hear  a reprimand  which  it  is  fitting  you  should  receive  at 
the  head  of  the  regiment,  and  which,  from  my  knowledge 
of  you,  I have  supposed  would  be  the  most  effectual  pun- 
ishment I could  inflict  for  your  late  disrespectful  conduct 
to  Captain  Hubbart.  ’ 

“ ‘ May  I ask,  Colonel,  have  you  heard  of  the  provocation 
which  induced  my  offence?  ’ 

“ ‘ I hope,  sir,  ’ replied  he,  with  a look  of  stern  dignity, 

‘ you  are  aware  of  the  difference  of  your  relative  rank  and 
station,  and  that  in  condescending  to  associate  with  you, 
Captain  Hubbart  conferred  an  honor  which  doubly  com- 
pensated for  any  liberty  he  was  pleased  to  take.  Head  the 
general  order,  Lieutenant  Wood.’ 

“A  confused  murmur  of  something,  from  which  I could 
collect  nothing,  reached  me;  a vague  feeliug  of  weight 
seemed  to  press  my  head,  and  a giddiness  that  made  me 
reel  was  on  me;  and  I only  knew  the  ceremony  wras  over 
as  I heard  the  order  given  to  march,  and  saw  the  troops 
begin  to  move  off  the  ground. 

‘“A  moment,  Colonel,’  said  I,  in  a voice  that  made  him 
start,  and  drew  on  me  the  look  of  all  the  others.  ‘ I have 
too  much  respect  for  you,  and  I hope  also  for  myself,  to 
attempt  any  explanation  of  a mere  jest  where  the  conse- 
quences have  taken  a serious  turn;  besides,  I feel  con- 
scious of  one  fault,  — far  too  grave  a one  to  venture  on  an 
excuse  for  any  other  I have  been  guilty  of.  I wish  to 
resign  my  post.  I here  leave  the  badge  of  the  only  servi- 
tude I ever  submitted  to,  or  ever  intend  to  submit  to;  and 
nov^,  as  a free  man  once  more,  and  a gentleman  too,  if 
you  ’ll  permit  me,  I beg  to  wish  you  adieu.  And  as  for 
you,  Captain,  I have  only  to  add,  that  whenever  you  feel 
disposed  for  a practical  joke,  or  any  other  interchange  of 
politeness,  Con  O’Kelly  will  be  always  delighted  to  meet 
your  views,  — the  more  so  as  he  feels,  though  you  may  not 
believe  it,  something  still  in  your  debt.’ 

“With  that  I turned  on  my  heel  and  left  the  barrack- 
yard,  not  a word  being  spoken  by  any  of  the  others,  nor 

9 


130 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


any  evidence  of  their  being  so  much  amused  as  they  seemed 
to  expect  from  my  exposure. 

“Did  it  never  strike  you  as  a strange  thing,  that,  while 
none  but  the  very  poorest  and  humblest  people  can  bear  to 
confess  to  present  poverty,  very  few  men  decline  to  speak 
of  the  narrow  circumstances  they  have  struggled  through, 
— nay,  rather  take  a kind  of  pleasure  in  relating  what 
difficulties  once  beset  their  path,  what  obstacles  were 
opposed  to  their  success?  The  reason  perhaps  is  that 
there  is  a reflective  merit  in  thus  surmounting  opposi- 
tion. The  acknowledgment  implies  a sense  of  triumph. 
It  seems  to  say,  ‘ Here  am  I,  such  as  you  see  me  now ; and 
yet  time  was  when  I was  houseless  and  friendless,  when 
the  clouds  darkened  around  my  path,  and  I saw  not  even 
the  faintest  glimmer  of  hope  to  light  up  the  future;  yet 
with  a stout  heart  and  strong  courage,  with  the  will  came 
the  way,  and  I conquered.’  I do  confess  I could  dwell, 
and  with  great  pleasure  too,  on  those  portions  of  my  life 
when  I was  poorest  and  most  forsaken,  in  preference  to 
the  days  of  my  prosperity  and  the  hours  of  my  greatest 
wealth.  Like  the  traveller,  who,  after  a long  journey 
through  some  dark  winter’s  day,  finds  himself  at  the 
approach  of  night  seated  by  the  corner  of  a cheery  fire 
in  his  inn, — every  rushing  gust  of  wind  that  shakes  the 
building,  every  plash  of  the  beating  rain  against  the  glass, 
but  adding  to  this  sense  of  comfort,  and  making  him  hug 
himself  with  satisfaction  to  think  how  he  is  no  longer 
exposed  to  such  a storm,  that  his  journey  is  accomplished, 
his  goal  reached,  and  drawing  his  chair  closer  to  the  blaze, 
allows  the  remembrance  of  the  past  to  give  all  the  enjoy- 
ment to  the  present,  — so,  in  the  same  way,  the  pleasant- 
est memories  of  old  age  are  of  those  periods  in  youth  when 
we  have  been  successful  over  difficulty,  and  have  won  our 
way  through  every  opposing  obstacle.  ‘ Joy’s  memory  is 
indeed  no  longer  joy.’  Few  can  look  back  on  happy  hours 
without  thinking  of  those  with  whom  they  spent  them;  and 
then  comes  the  sad  question,  Where  are  they  now?  What 
man  reaches  even  the  middle  term  of  life  with  a tithe  of 
the  friends  he  started  with  in  youth;  and  as  they  drop  off 
one  by  one  around  him,  the  sad  reflection  comes  that  the 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


131 


period  is  past  when  such  ties  can  be  formed  anew, — the 
book  of  the  heart  once  closed,  opens  no  more.  But  why 
these  reflections?  1 must  close  them,  and  with  them  my 
story  at  once. 

“The  few  pounds  I possessed  in  the  world  enabled  me 
to  reach  Quebec,  and  take  my  passage  in  a timber  vessel 
bound  for  Cork.  Why  I returned  to  Ireland,  and  with 
what  intentions,  I should  be  sorely  puzzled  to  explain. 
Some  vague,  indistinct  feeling  of  home  connected  with  my 
birthplace  had,  perhaps,  its  influence  over  me.  So  it  was: 
I did  so. 

“ After  a good  voyage  of  some  five  weeks,  we  anchored 
in  Cove,  where  I landed,  and  proceeded  on  foot  to  Tralee. 
It  was  night  when  I arrived.  A few  faint  glimmering 
lights  could  be  seen  here  and  there  from  an  upper  win- 
dow; but  all  the  rest  was  in  darkness.  Instinctively  I 
wandered  on,  till  I came  to  the  little  street  where  my  aunt 
had  lived.  I knew  every  stone  in  it.  There  was  not  a 
house  I passed  but  I was  familiar  with  all  its  history. 
There  was  Mark  Cassidy’s  provision  store,  as  he  proudly 
called  a long  dark  room,  the  ceiling  thickly  studded  with 
hams  and  bacon,  coils  of  rope,  candles,  flakes  of  glue,  and 
loaves  of  sugar;  while  a narrow  pathway  was  eked  out 
below  between  a sugar-hogshead,  some  sacks  of  flour  and 
potatoes,  hemp-seed,  tar,  and  treacle,  interspersed  with 
scythe-blades,  reaping-hooks,  and  sweeping-brushes,  — a 
great  coffee-roaster  adorning  the  wall,  and  forming  a con- 
spicuous object  for  the  wonderment  of  the  country  people, 
who  never  could  satisfy  themselves  whether  it  was  a new- 
fashioned  clock  or  a weather-glass  or  a little  threshing- 
machine  or  a money-box.  Next  door  was  Maurice 
Fitzgerald’s,  the  apothecary,  a cosey  little  cell  of  eight 
feet  by  six,  where  there  was  just  space  left  for  a long- 
practised  individual  to  grind  with  a pestle  without  putting 
his  right  elbow  through  a blue-glass  bottle  that  figured  in 
the  front  window,  or  his  left  into  active  intercourse  with  a 
regiment  of  tinctures  that  stood  up,  brown  and  muddy  and 
fcetid,  on  a shelf  hard  by.  Then  came  Joe  M’Evoys, 
‘licensed  for  spirits  and  enthertainment, ’ where  I had 
often  stood  as  a boy  to  listen  to  the  pleasant  sounds  of 


132 


ARTHUR  O'LEARY. 


Larry  Branaghan’s  pipes,  or  to  the  agreeable  ditties  of 
‘Adieu,  ye  shinin’  daisies,  I loved  you  well  and  long,’ 
as  sung  by  him,  with  an  accompaniment.  Then  there  was 
Mister  Moriarty’s,  the  attorney,  a great  man  in  the  petty 
sessions,  a bitter  pill  for  all  the  country  gentlemen;  he 
was  always  raking  up  knotty  cases  of  their  decisions,  and 
reporting  them  to  the  ‘ Limerick  Vindicator  ’ under  the 
cognomen  of  ‘Brutus’  or  ‘ Coriolanus.’  I could  just  see 
by  the  faint  light  that  his  house  had  been  raised  a story 
higher,  and  little  iron  balconies,  like  railings,  stuck  to  the 
drawing-room  windows. 

“Next  came  my  aunt’s.  There  it  was;  my  foot  was  on 
the  door  where  I stood  as  a child,  my  little  heart  wavering 
between  fears  of  the  unknown  world  without  and  hopes  of 
doing  something  — Heaven  knows  what! — which  would 
make  me  a name  hereafter.  And  there  I was  now,  after 
years  of  toil  and  peril  of  every  kind,  enough  to  have  won 
me  distinction,  success  enough  to  have  made  me  rich,  had 
either  been  but  well  directed;  and  yet  I was  poor  and 
humble,  as  the  very  hour  I quitted  that  home.  I sat  down 
on  the  steps,  my  heart  heavy  and  sad,  my  limbs  tired,  and 
before  many  minutes  fell  fast  asleep,  and  never  awoke  till 
the  bright  sun  was  shining  gayly  on  one  side  of  the  little 
street,  and  already  the  preparations  for  the  coming  day 
were  going  on  about  me.  I started  up,  afraid  and  ashamed 
of  being  seen,  and  turned  into  the  little  ale-house  close  by, 
to  get  my  breakfast.  Joe  himself  was  not  forthcoming; 
but  a fat,  pleasant-looking,  yellow-haired  fellow,  his  very 
image,  only  some  dozen  years  younger,  was  there,  bustling 
about  among  some  pewter  quarts  and  tin  measures,  arrang- 
ing tobacco-pipes,  and  making  up  little  pennyworths  of 
tobacco. 

“‘  Is  your  name  M’Evoy?  ’ said  I. 

“‘  The  same,  at  your  service,’  said  he,  scarce  raising  his 
eyes  from  his  occupation. 

“‘  Not  Joe  M’Evoy?  ’ 

“‘  No,  sir,  Ned  M’Evoy;  the  old  man’s  name  was  Joe.’ 

“‘  He’s  dead,  then,  I suppose?’ 

“‘Ay,  sir;  these  eight  years  come  Micklemass.  Is  it  a 
pint  or  a naggin  of  sperits?’ 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


133 


“‘Neither;  it’s  some  breakfast,  a rasher  and  a few 
potatoes,  I want  most.  1 ’ll  take  it  here,  or  in  the  little 
room.’ 

“ ‘ Faix,  ye  seem  to  know  the  ways  of  the  place,  ’ said 
he,  smiling,  as  he  saw  me  deliberately  push  open  a small 
door,  and  enter  a little  parlor  once  reserved  for  favorite 
visitors. 

“‘  It ’s  many  years  since  I was  here  before,’  said  I to  the 
host,  as  he  stood  opposite  to  me,  watching  the  progress  I 
was  making  with  my  breakfast,  — ‘ so  many  that  I can 
scarce  remember  more  than  the  names  of  the  people  I 
knew  very  well.  Is  there  a Miss  O’Kelly  living  in  the 
town?  It  was  somewhere  near  this,  her  house.’ 

“‘Yes,  above  Mr.  Moriarty’s,  that’s  where  she  lived; 
but  sure  she  ’s  dead  and  gone,  many  a day  ago.  I mind 
Father  Donellan,  the  priest  that  was  here  before  Mr. 
Nolan,  saying  Masses  for  her  sowl,  when  I was  a slip  of 
a boy.’ 

“ ‘ Dead  and  gone,  ’ repeated  I to  myself  sadly,  — for 
though  I scarcely  expected  to  meet  my  poor  old  relative 
again,  I cherished  a kind  of  half  hope  that  she  might  still 
be  living.  ‘And  the  priest,  Father  Donellan,  is  he  dead 
too?  ’ 

“‘Yes,  sir;  he  died  of  the  fever,  that  was  so  bad  four 
years  ago.’ 

“‘  And  Mrs.  Brown  that  kept  the  post-office?  ’ 

“‘She  went  away  to  Ennis  when  her  daughter  was 
married  there;  I never  heard  tell  of  her  since.’ 

“ ‘ So  that,  in  fact,  there  are  none  of  the  old  inhabitants 
of  the  town  remaining.  All  have  died  off?  ’ 

“‘Every  one,  except  the  ould  captain;  he’s  the  only 
one  left.’ 

“ ‘ Who  is  he?  ’ 

“‘  Captain  Dwyer;  maybe  you  knew  him?  ’ 

“‘  Yes,  I knew  him  well;  and  he ’s  alive?  He  must  be 
very  old  by  this  time.’ 

“‘He’s  something  about  eighty-six  or  seven;  but  he 
doesn’t  let  on  to  more  nor  sixty,  I believe;  but,  sure, 
talk  of — God  preserve  us,  here  he  is!  ’ 

“As  he  spoke,  a thin,  withered-looking  old  man,  bent 


134 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


double  with  age,  and  walking  with  great  difficulty,  came 
to  the  door,  and  in  a cracked  voice  called  out,  — 

‘“Ned  M’Evoy;  here’s  the  paper  for  you-,  plenty  of 
news  in  it,  too,  about  Mister  O’Connell  and  the  meetings 
in  Dublin.  If  Cavanagh  takes  any  fish,  buy  a sole  or  a 
whiting  for  me,  and  send  me  the  paper  back.’ 

“ ‘ There ’s  a gentleman,  inside  here,  was  just  asking  for 
you,  sir,’  said  the  host. 

Who  is  he?  Is  it  Mr.  Creagh?  At  your  service,  sir,’ 
said  the  old  man,  sitting  down  on  a chair  near  me,  and 
looking  at  me  from  under  the  shadow  of  his  hand  spread 
over  his  brow.  ‘ You  ’re  Mr.  Studdart,  I ’m  thinking?  ’ 
“‘No,  sir;  I do  not  suspect  you  know  me;  and,  indeed, 
I merely  mentioned  your  name  as  one  I had  heard  of  many 
years  ago  when  I was  here,  but  not  as  being  personally 
known  to  you.’ 

“‘  Oh,  troth,  and  so  you  might,  for  I ’m  well  known  in 
these  parts,  — eh,  Ned?  ’ said  he,  with  a chuckling  cackle, 
that  sounded  very  like  hopeless  dotage.  ‘ I was  in  the 
army,  — in  the  “Buffs;  ” maybe  you  knew  one  Clancy  who 
was  in  them?  ’ 

“‘No,  sir;  I have  not  many  military  acquaintances.  I 
came  here  this  morning  on  my  way  to  Dublin,  and  thought 
I would  just  ask  a few  questions  about  some  people  I knew 
a little  about.  Miss  O’Kelly  — ’ 

“‘Ah,  dear!  Poor  Miss  Judy, — she’s  gone  these  two 
or  three  years.’ 

“‘  Ay,  these  fifteen,’  interposed  Ned. 

“‘No,  it  isn’t  though,’  said  the  captain,  crossly,  ‘it 
isn’t  more  than  three  at  most,  — cut  off  in  her  prime  too. 
She  was  the  last  of  an  old  stock,  — I knew  them  all  well. 
There  was  Dick, — blazing  Dick  O’Kelly,  as  they  called 
him,  — that  threw  the  sheriff  into  the  mill-race  at  Kilrna- 
cud,  and  had  to  go  to  France  afterwards ; and  there  was  Peter, 
— Peter  got  the  property,  but  he  was  shot  in  a duel.  Peter 
had  a son, — a nice  devil  he  was  too;  he  was  drowned  at  sea; 
and  except  the  little  girl  that  has  the  school  up  there,  Sally 
O’Kelly, — she  is  one  of  them,  — there ’s  none  to  the  fore.’ 
“‘And  who  was  she,  sir?  ’ 

“‘  Sally  was  — what’s  this?  Ay,  Sally  is  daughter  to  a 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


135 


son  Dick  left  in  France.  He  died  in  the  war  in  Germany, 
and  left  this  creature;  and  Miss  Judy  heard  of  her,  and 
got  her  over  here,  just  the  week  she  departed  herself. 
She’s  the  last  of  them  now,  — the  best  family  in  Kerry, 
— and  keeping  a child’s  school!  Ay,  ay,  so  it  is;  and 
there’s  property  too  coming  to  her,  if  they  could  only 
prove  that  chap’s  death,  Con  O’Kelly.  But  sure  no  one 
knows  anything  where  it  happened.  Sam  Fitzsimon 
advertised  him  in  all  the  papers,  but  to  no  use.’ 

“ I did  not  wait  for  more  of  the  old  captain’s  reminis- 
cences, but  snatching  up  my  hat  I hurried  down  the  street, 
and  in  less  than  an  hour  was  closeted  with  Mr.  Samuel 
Fitzsimon,  attorney-at-law,  and  gravely  discussing  the 
steps  necessary  to  be  taken  for  the  assumption  of  my 
right  to  a small  property,  the  remains  of  my  Aunt 
Judy’s, — a few  hundred  pounds,  renewal  fines  of  lands, 
that  had  dropped  since  my  father’s  death.  My  next  visit 
was  to  the  little  school,  which  was  held  in  the  parlor  where 
poor  Aunt  Judy  used  to  have  her  little  card  parties.  The 
old  stuffed  macaw  — now  from  dirt  and  smoke  he  might 
have  passed  for  a raven  — was  still  over  the  fireplace,  and 
there  was  the  old  miniature  of  my  father,  and  on  the  other 
side  was  one  which  I had  not  seen  before,  of  Father  Donel- 
la.n  in  full  robes.  All  the  little  old  conchologies  were  there 
too ; and  except  the  black  plethoric-looking  cat  that  sat  star- 
ing fixedly  at  the  fire  as  if  she  was  grieving  over  the  price 
of  coals,  I missed  nothing.  Miss  Sally  was  a nice  modest- 
looking  woman,  with  an  air  of  better  class  about  her  than 
her  humble  occupation  would  seem  to  imply.  I made 
known  my  relationship  in  a few  words,  and  having  told 
her  that  1 had  made  all  arrangements  for  settling  what- 
ever property  I possessed  upon  her,  and  informed  her  that 
Mr.  Fitzsimon  would  act  as  her  guardian,  I wished  her 
good-by  and  departed.  I saw  that  my  life  must  be  passed 
in  occupation  of  one  kind  or  other,  — idleness  would  never 
do;  and  with  the  only  fifty  I reserved  to  myself  of  my 
little  fortune,  I started  for  Paris.  What  I was  to  do  I 
had  no  idea  whatever;  but  1 well  knew  that  you  have  only 
to  lay  the  bridle  on  Fortune’s  neck,  and  you  ’ll  seldom  be 
disappointed  in  adventures. 


136 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ For  some  weeks  I strolled  about  Paris,  enjoying  myself 
as  thoughtlessly  as  though  I had  no  need  of  any  effort  to 
replenish  my  failing  exchequer.  The  mere  human  tide 
that  flowed  along  the  Boulevards  and  through  the  gay  gar- 
dens of  the  Tuileries  would  have  been  amusement  enough 
for  me.  Then  there  were  theatres  and  cafes  and  restau- 
rants of  every  class,  — from  the  costly  style  of  the  Rocher 
down  to  the  dinner  beside  the  fountain  Des  Innocents, 
where  you  feast  for  four  sous,  and  where  the  lowest  and 
poorest  class  of  the  capital  resorted.  Well,  well,  I might 
tell  you  some  strange  scenes  of  those  days,  but  I must 
hurry  on. 

“ In  my  rambles  through  Paris,  visiting  strange  and  out- 
of-the-way  places,  dining  here  and  supping  there,  watching 
life  under  every  aspect  I could  behold  it,  I strolled  one 
evening  across  the  Pont  Neuf  into  the  lie  St.  Louis,  that 
quaint  old  quarter,  with  its  narrow  straggling  streets,  and 
its  tall  gloomy  houses,  barricaded  like  fortresses.  The  old 
portcs-cochere  studded  with  nails  and  barred  with  iron,  and 
having  each  a small  window  to  peer  through  at  the  stranger 
without,  spoke  of  days  when  outrage  and  attack  were  rife, 
and  it  behooved  every  man  to  fortify  his  stronghold  as  best 
he  could.  There  were  now  to  be  found  the  most  abandoned 
and  desperate  of  the  whole  Parisian  world;  the  assassin, 
the  murderer,  the  housebreaker,  the  coiner,  found  a refuge 
in  this  confused  wilderness  of  gloomy  alleys  and  dark  dis- 
mal passages.  When  night  falls,  no  lantern  throws  a 
friendly  gleam  along  the  streets;  all  is  left  in  perfect 
darkness,  save  when  the  red  light  of  some  cabaret  lamp 
streams  across  the  pavement.  In  one  of  these  dismal 
streets  I found  myself  when  night  set  in,  and  although 
I walked  on  and  on,  somehow  I never  could  extricate  my- 
self, but  continually  kept  moving  in  some  narrow  circle,  — 
so  I guessed  at  least,  for  I never  wandered  far  from  the 
deep-toned  bell  of  Notre  Dame,  that  went  on  chanting  its 
melancholy  peal  through  the  stillness  of  the  night  air.  I 
often  stopped  to  listen.  Now  it  seemed  before,  now  behind 
me;  the  rich  solemn  sound  floating  through  those  cavern- 
ous streets  had  something  awfully  impressive.  The  voice 
that  called  to  prayer,  heard  in  that  gloomy  haunt  of  crime, 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


137 


was  indeed  a strange  and  appalling  thing.  At  last  it 
ceased,  and  all  was  still.  For  some  time  I was  uncertain 
liow  to  act.  I feared  to  knock  at  a door  and  ask  my  way; 
the  very  confession  of  my  loneliness  would  have  been  an 
invitation  to  outrage,  if  not  murder.  No  one  passed  me ; 
the  streets  seemed  actually  deserted. 

“Fatigued  with  walking,  I sat  down  on  a door-sill  and 
began  to  consider  what  was  best  to  be  done,  when  T heard 
the  sound  of  heavy  feet  moving  along  towards  me,  the  clat- 
tering of  sabots  on  the  rough  pavement,  and  shortly  after 
a man  came  up,  who,  1 could  just  distinguish,  seemed  to 
be  a laborer.  1 suffered  him  to  pass  me  a few  paces,  and 
then  called  out,  — 

“‘Halloa,  friend!  can  you  tell  me  the  shortest  way  to 
the  Pont  Neuf  ? ’ 

“He  replied  by  some  words  in  a^a^ois  so  strange  I could 
make  nothing  of  it.  I repeated  my  question,  and  endeav- 
•ored  by  signs  to  express  my  wish.  13y  this  time  he  was 
standing  close  beside  me,  and  I could  mark  was  evidently 
paying  full  attention  to  all  I said.  He  looked  about  him 
once  or  twice,  as  if  in  search  of  some  one,  and  then  turn- 
ing to  me,  said  in  a thick  guttural  voice,  — 

“ ‘ Halte  la,  I ’ll  come;  ’ and  with  that  he  moved  down  in 
the  direction  he  originally  came  from,  and  I could  hear  the 
clatter  of  his  heavy  shoes  till  the  sounds  were  lost  in  the 
winding  alleys. 

“A  sudden  thought  struck  me  that  I had  done  wrong. 
The  fellow  had  evidently  some  dark  intention  by  his  going 
back,  and  I repented  bitterly  having  allowed  him  to  leave 
me.  But  then,  what  were  easier  for  him  than  to  lead  me 
where  he  pleased,  had  I retained  him!  and  so  I reflected, 
when  the  noise  of  many  voices  speaking  in  a half-subdued 
accent  came  up  the  street.  I heard  the  sound,  too,  of  a 
great  many  feet.  My  heart  sickened  as  the  idea  of  mur- 
der, so  associated  with  the  place,  flashed  across  me;  and  I 
had  just  time  to  squeeze  myself  within  the  shelter  of  the 
door-way,  when  the  party  came  up. 

“‘  Somewhere  hereabouts,  you  said,  wasn’t  it?’  said  one 
in  a good  accent  and  a deep  clear  voice. 

“‘  Oui  da! 7 said  the  man  I had  spoken  to,  while  he  felt 


138 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


with  his  hands  upon  the  walls  and  doorway  of  the  oppo- 
site house.  ‘ Halloa  there ! ’ he  shouted. 

“‘Be  still,  you  fool!  don’t  you  think  that  he  suspects 
something  by  this  time?  Did  the  others  go  down  the  Rue 
des  Loups? ’ 

Yes,  yes,’  said  a voice  close  to  where  I stood. 

“‘  Then  all ’s  safe;  he  can’t  escape  that  way.  Strike  a 
light,  Pierre.’ 

“ A tall  figure,  wrapped  up  in  a cloak,  produced  a tinder- 
box,  and  began  to  clink  deliberately  with  a steel  and  Hint. 
Every  flash  showed  me  some  savage-looking  face,  where 
crime  and  famine  struggled  for  mastery;  while  I could 
mark  that  many  had  large  clubs  of  wood,  and  one  or  two 
were  armed  with  swords.  I drew  my  breath  with  short 
efforts,  and  was  preparing  myself  for  the  struggle,  in 
which,  though  I saw  death  before  me,  I resolved  to  sell 
life  dearly,  when  a hand  was  passed  across  the  pillar  of 
the  door,  and  rested  on  my  leg.  For  a second  it  never 
stirred;  then  slowly  moved  up  to  my  knee,  where  it 
stopped  again.  My  heart  seemed  to  cease  its  beating; 
I felt  like  one  around  whose  body  some  snake  is  coiling, 
fold  after  fold,  his  slimy  grasp.  The  hand  was  gently 
withdrawn,  and  before  I could  recover  from  my  surprise  I 
Avas  seized  by  the  throat  and  hurled  out  into  the  street.  A 
savage  laugh  rang  through  the  crowd,  and  a lantern,  just 
lighted,  was  held  up  to  my  face,  while  he  who  spoke  first 
called  out,  — 

“‘  You  didn’t  dream  of  escaping  us,  hete,  did  you?’ 

“At  the  same  moment  hands  were  thrust  into  my  various 
pockets;  the  few  silver  pieces  I possessed  were  taken,  my 
watch  torn  off,  my  hat  examined,  and  the  lining  of  my  coat 
ripped  open,  — and  all  so  speedily,  that  I saw  at  once  I 
had  fallen  into  experienced  hands. 

“‘  Where  do  you  live  in  Paris?’  said  the  first  speaker, 
still  holding  the  light  to  my  face,  and  staring  fixedly 
at  me. 

“‘I  am  a stranger  and  alone,’  said  I,  for  the  thought 
struck  me  that  in  such  a circumstance  frankness  was  as 
good  policy  as  any  other.  ‘ I came  here  to-night  to  see  the 
cathedral,  and  lost  my  way  in  returning.’ 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


130 


But  where  do  you  live,  — in  what  quarter  of  Paris?  ’ 
“‘  The  Iiue  d’Alger;  Xo.  12;  the  second  story.’ 

“‘  What  effects  have  you  there  in  money?  ’ 

“ * One  English  bank-note  for  five  pounds ; nothing 
more.’ 

“ ‘ Any  jewels,  or  valuables  of  any  kind?’ 

“ ‘ None;  I am  as  poor  as  any  man  in  Paris.’ 

“‘  Does  the  porter  know  your  name,  in  the  house?  ’ 

Xo;  I am  only  known  as  the  Englishman  of  Xo.  12.’ 
“‘  What  are  your  hours,  — irregular,  are  they  not?  ’ 

“‘  Yes,  I often  come  home  very  late.’ 

“‘  That’s  all  right.  You  speak  French  well.  Can  you 
write  it?’ 

“ ‘ Yes,  sufficiently  so  for  any  common  purpose.’ 

“ ‘ Here,  then,  ’ said  he,  opening  a large  pocket-book, 

‘ write  an  order,  which  1 ’ll  tell  you,  to  the  concierge  of 
the  house.  Take  this  pen.’ 

“With  a trembling  hand  I took  the  pen,  and  waited  for 
his  direction. 

“ ‘ Is  it  a woman  keeps  the  door  of  your  hotel?  ’ 

Yes,’  said  I. 

“‘Well,  then,  begin:  — 

“ ‘ Madame  La  Concierge,  let  the  bearer  of  this  note  have  the  key 
of  my  apartment  — ’ 

“ As  I followed  with  my  hand  the  words,  I could  mark 
that  one  of  the  party  was  whispering  in  the  ear  of  the 
speaker,  and  then  moved  slowly  round  to  my  back. 

“‘Hush!  what’s  that?’  cried  the  chief  speaker.  ‘Be 
still  there!  ’ and  as  we  listened,  the  chorus  of  a number  of 
voices  singing  in  parts  was  heard  at  some  little  distance  off. 

“‘  That  infernal  nest  of  fellows  must  be  rooted  out  of 
this,  one  day  or  other,’  said  the  chief;  ‘ and  if  I end  my 
days  on  the  Place  de  Greve,  I ’ll  try  and  do  it.  Hush 
there!  be  still!  they  ’re  passing  on.’ 

“True  enough,  the  sound  began  to  wax  fainter,  and  my 
heart  sank  heavily,  as  I thought  the  Inst  hope  was  leaving 
me.  Suddenly  a thought  dashed  through  my  mind,  — 
‘Death  in  one  shape  is  as  bad  as  another.  I’ll  do  it!’ 


140 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


I stooped  down  as  if  to  continue  my  writing,  and  then 
collecting  my  strength  for  the  effort,  and  taking  a deep 
breath,  I struck  the  man  in  front  a blow  with  all  my 
might,  that  felled  him  to  the  ground,  and  clearing  him 
with  a spring,  I bounded  down  the  street.  My  old  Indian 
teaching  had  done  me  good  service  here;  few  white  men 
could  have  caught  me  in  an  open  plain,  with  space  and 
sight  to  guide  me,  and  I gained  at  every  stride.  But, 
alas!  I dared  not  stop  to  listen  whence  the  sounds  pro- 
ceeded, and  could  only  dash  straight  forward,  not  knowing 
where  it  might  lead  me.  Down  a steep,  rugged  street,  that 
grew  narrower  as  I went,  I plunged,  when  — horror  of  hor- 
rors ! — I heard  the  Seine  plashing  at  the  end ; the  rapid 
current  of  the  river  surged  against  the  heavy  timbers  that 
defended  the  banks,  with  a sound  like  a death-wail.  A 
solitary,  trembling  light  lay  afar  off  in  the  river  from  some 
barge  that  was  at  anchor  there;  I fixed  my  eye  upon  it, 
and  was  preparing  for  a plunge,  when,  with  a half-sup- 
pressed cry,  my  pursuers  sprang  up  from  a low  wharf  I 
had  not  seen,  below  the  quay,  and  stood  in  front  of  me. 
In  an  instant  they  were  upon  me;  a shower  of  blows  fell 
upon  my  head  and  shoulders,  and  one,  armed  with  des- 
perate resolution,  struck  me  on  the  forehead  and  felled 
me  on  the  spot. 

“‘Be  quick  now,  be  quick!’  said  a voice  I well  knew; 
‘into  the  river  with  him, — the  filets  de  St.  Cloud  will 
catch  him  by  daybreak,  — into  the  river  with  him!  ’ 

“ They  tore  off  my  coat  and  shoes,  and  dragged  me  along 
towards  the  wharf.  My  senses  were  clear,  though  the  blow 
had  deprived  me  of  all  power  to  resist,  and  I could  calcu- 
late the  little  chance  still  left  me  when  once  I had  reached 
the  river,  when  a loud  yell  and  a whistle  was  heard  afar 
off, — another,  louder,  followed;  the  fellows  around  me 
sprang  to  their  legs,  and  with  a muttered  curse  and  a 
cry  of  terror  darted  off  in  different  directions.  I could 
hear  now  several  pistol-shots  following  quickly  on  one 
another,  and  the  noise  of  a scuffle  with  swords;  in  an 
instant  it  was  over,  and  a cheer  burst  forth  like  a cry  of 
triumph. 

“‘Any  one  wounded  there? 1 shouted  a deep  manly  voice, 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


141 


from  the  end  of  the  street.  I endeavored  to  call  out,  but 
my  voice  failed  me.  ‘Halloa,  there!  anyone  wounded?  * 
said  the  voice  again,  when  a window  was  opened  over  my 
head,  and  a man  held  a candle  out,  and  looked  into  the 
street. 

This  way,  this  way!  ’ said  he,  as  he  caught  sight  of 
my  shadow  where  I lay. 

“‘Ay,  1 guessed  they  went  down  here,’  said  the  same 
voice  I heard  first,  as  he  came  along,  followed  by  several 
others.  ‘ Well,  friend,  are  you  much  hurt,  any  blood 
lost?  ’ 

“‘  No,  only  stunned,’  said  I,  ‘ and  almost  well  already.’ 

“‘  Have  you  any  friends  here?  Were  you  quite  alone?  ’ 

“‘  Yes;  quite  alone.’ 

“‘  Of  course  you  were;  why  should  I ask?  That  mur- 
derous gang  never  dared  to  face  two  men  yet.  Come,  are 
you  able  to  walk?  Oh,  you  ’re  a stout  fellow,  I see;  come 
along  with  us.  Come,  Ludwig,  put  a hand  under  him,  and 
we  ’ll  soon  bring  him  up.’ 

“ When  they  lifted  me  up,  the  sudden  motion  caused  a 
weakness  so  complete  that  I fainted,  and  knew  little  more 
of  their  proceedings  till  I found  myself  lying  on  a sofa  in 
a large  room,  where  some  forty  persons  were  seated  at  a 
long  table,  most  of  them  smoking  from  huge  pipes  of  regu- 
lar German  proportions. 

“‘Where  am  I?’  was  my  question,  as  I looked  about, 
and  perceived  that  the  party  wore  a kind  of  blue  uniform, 
with  fur  on  the  collar  and  cuffs,  and  a grayhound  worked 
in  gold  on  the  arm. 

“‘Why,  you’re  safe,  my  good  friend,’  said  a friendly 
voice  beside  me ; ‘ that ’s  quite  enough  to  know  at  present, 
is  n’t  it?  ’ 

“ ‘ I begin  to  agree  with  you,  ’ said  I,  coolly ; and  so, 
turning  round  on  my  side,  I closed  my  eyes,  and  fell  into 
as  pleasant  a sleep  as  ever  I remember  in  my  life. 

“They  were,  indeed,  a very  singular  class  of  restora- 
tives which  my  kind  friends  thought  proper  to  administer 
to  me;  nor  am  I quite  sure  that  a bavaroise  of  chocolate 
dashed  with  rum,  and  friction  over  the  face  with  hot  Eau 
de  Cologne  are  sufficiently  appreciated  by  the  ‘ faculty ; ’ 


142 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


but  this  I do  know,  that  I felt  very  much  revived  by  the 
application  without  and  within,  and  with  a face  somewhat 
the  color  of  a copper  preserving-pan,  and  far  too  hot  to  put 
anything  on,  I sat  up,  and  looked  about  me.  A merrier 
set  of  gentlemen  not  even  my  experience  had  ever  beheld. 
They  were  mostly  middle-aged,  grizzly-looking  fellows, 
with  very  profuse  beards  and  mustaches;  their  conver- 
sation was  partly  French,  partly  German,  while  here  and 
there  a stray  Italian  diminutive  crept  in;  and  to  season 
the  whole,  like  cayenne  in  a ragout,  there  was  an  odd  curse 
m English.  Their  strange  dress,  their  free-and-easy  man- 
ner, their  intimacy  with  one  another,  and  above  all  the 
locale  they  had  chosen  for  their  festivities,  made  me,  I 
own,  a little  suspicious  about  their  spotless  morality,  and 
I began  conjecturing  to  what  possible  calling  they  might 
belong, —now  guessing  them  smugglers,  now  police  of 
some  kind  or  other,  now  highwaymen  outright,  but  with- 
out ever  being  able  to  come  to  any  conclusion  that  even 
approached  satisfaction.  The  more  I listened,  the  more 
did  my  puzzle  grow  on  me.  That  they  were  either  the 
most  distinguished  and  exalted  individuals  or  the  most 
confounded  story-tellers,  was  certain.  Here  was  a fat 
greasy  little  fellow,  with  a beard  like  an  Armenian,  who 
was  talking  of  a trip  he  made  to  Greece  with  the  Duke  of 
Saxe  Weimar;  apparently  they  were  on  the  best  of  terms 
together,  and  had  a most  jolly  time  of  it.  There  was  a 
large  handsome  man,  with  a short  black  mustache,  describ- 
ing a night  attack  made  by  wolves  on  the  caravan  he  was 
in,  during  a journey  to  Siberia.  I listened  with  intense 
interest  to  his  narrative;  the  scenery,  the  danger,  the 
preparation  for  defence,  had  all  those  little  traits  that 
bespeak  truth,  when,  confound  him!  he  destroyed  the 
whole  as  he  said,  ‘At  that  moment  the  Archduke  Nicholas 
said  to  me  — ’ The  Archduke  Nicholas,  indeed!  very  good 
that!  he ’s  just  as  great  a liar  as  the  other. 

Come,’ thought  I,  ‘there’s  a respectable-looking  old 
fellow  with  a bald  head, — let  us  hear  him;  there’s  no 
boasting  of  the  great  people  he  ever  met  with  from  that 
one,  I ’m  sure.’ 

“‘  We  were  now  coming  near  to  Vienna,’  continued  he. 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


143 


* the  night  was  dark  as  pitch,  when  a vidette  came  up  to 
say  that  a party  of  brigands,  well  known  thereabouts,  were 
seen  hovering  about  the  post  station  the  entire  evening. 
We  were  well  armed,  but  still  by  no  means  numerous,  and 
it  became  a grave  question  what  we  were  to  do.  I got 
down  immediately,  and  examined  the  loading  and  priming 
of  the  carbines;  they  were  all  right,  nothing  had  been 
stirred.  “What’s  the  matter?”  said  the  duke. ’ (‘Oh,’ 

thought  I,  ‘then  there’s  a duke  here  also!’)  ‘What’s 
the  matter?  ’ said  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 

“‘  Oh,  by  Jove!  that  beats  all!  ’ cried  I,  jumping  up  on 
the  sofa,  and  opening  both  my  hands  with  astonishment. 

‘ I ’d  have  wagered  a trifle  on  that  little  fellow,  and  hang 
me  if  he  isn’t  the  worst  of  the  whole  set!  ’ 

“ ‘ What ’s  the  matter;  what ’s  happened?  ’ said  they  all, 
turning  round  in  amazement  at  my  sudden  exclamation. 
‘ Is  the  man  mad?  ’ 

“ ‘ It ’s  hard  to  say,’  replied  I;  ‘ but  if  I ’m  not,  you  must 
be, — unless  I have  the  honor,  which  is  perfectly  possible, 
to  be  at  this  moment  in  company  with  the  Holy  Alliance; 
for,  so  help  me,  since  I ’ve  sat  here  and  listened  to  you 
there  is  not  a crowned  head  in  Europe,  not  a queen,  not  an 
archduke,  ambassador,  and  general-in-chief,  whom  some  of 
you  have  not  been  intimate  with;  and  the  small  man  with 
a red  beard  has  just  let  slip  something  about  the  Shah  of 
Persia.  ’ 

“The  torrent  of  laughter  that  shook  the  table  never 
ceased  for  a full  quarter  of  an  hour.  Old  and  young, 
smooth  and  grizzly,  they  laughed  till  their  faces  were 
seamed  with  rivulets  like  a mountain  in  winter;  and 
when  they  would  endeavor  to  address  me,  they ’d  burst 
out  again,  as  fresh  as  ever. 

“‘Come  over  and  join  us,  worthy  friend,’  said  he  who 
sat  at  the  head  of  the  board,  — ‘ you  seem  well  equal  to  it; 
and  perhaps  our  character  as  men  of  truth  may  improve  on 
acquaintance.’ 

“‘  What,  in  Heaven’s  name,  are  you?’  said  I. 

“Another  burst  of  merriment  was  the  only  reply  they 
made  me.  I never  found  much  difficulty  in  making  my 
way  in  certain  classes  of  society  where  the  tone  was  a 


144 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


familiar  one.  Where  a bon  mot  was  good  currency  and 
a joke  passed  well,  there  I was  at  home,  and  to  assume  the 
features  of  the  party  was  with  me  a kind  of  instinct  which 
I could  not  avoid;  it  cost  me  neither  effort  nor  strain;  I 
caught  up  the  spirit  as  a child  catches  up  an  accent,  and 
went  the  pace  as  pleasantly  as  though  I had  been  bred 
among  them.  I was  therefore  but  a short  time  at  table 
when  by  way  of  matriculation  I deemed  it  necessary  to 
relate  a story;  and  certainly  if  they  had  astounded  me  by 
the  circumstances  of  their  high  and  mighty  acquaintances, 
I did  not  spare  them  in  my  narrative,  — in  which  the 
Emperor  of  Japan  figured  as  a very  commonplace  indi- 
vidual, and  the  King  of  Candia  came  in,  just  incidentally, 
as  a rather  dubious  acquaintance  might  do.  For  a time 
they  listened,  like  people  who  are  well  accustomed  to  give 
and  take  these  kinds  of  miracle;  but  when  I mentioned 
something  about  a game  of  leap-frog  on  the  wall  of  China 
with  the  Celestial  himself,  a perfect  shout  of  incredulous 
laughter  interrupted  me. 

“‘Well,’  said  I,  ‘don’t  believe  me,  if  you  don’t  like; 
but  here  have  I been  the  whole  evening  listening  to  you, 
and  if  I ’ve  not  bolted  as  much  as  that,  my  name ’s  not  Con 
O’Kelly.’ 

“ But  it  is  not  necessary  to  tell  you  how,  step  by  step, 
they  led  me  to  credit  all  they  were  saying,  but  actually  to 
tell  my  own  real  story  to  them,  — which  I did  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  down  to  the  very  moment  I sat  there,  with  a 
large  glass  of  hot  claret  before  me,  as  happy  as  might  be. 
“‘And  you  really  are  so  low  in  purse?  ’ said  one. 

“‘And  have  no  prospect  of  any  occupation,  nor  any  idea 
of  a livelihood?  ’ cried  another. 

“‘Just  as  much  as  I expect  promotion  from  my  friend 
the  Emperor  of  China,’  said  I. 

“‘  You  speak  French  and  German  well  enough,  though?’ 
“ ‘ And  a smattering  of  Italian,  ’ said  I. 

“‘  Come,  you  ’ll  do  admirably;  be  one  of  us.’ 

“‘  Might  I make  bold  enough  to  ask  what  trade  that  is?’ 
“‘  You  don’t  know,  — you  can’t  guess  even?  ’ 

“‘Not  even  guess,’  said  I,  ‘except  you  report  for  the 
papers,  and  come  here  to  make  up  the  news.’ 


TIIE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


145 


Something  better  than  that,  I hope,’  said  the  man  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  ‘ What  think  you  of  a life  that 
leads  a man  about  the  world  from  Norway  to  Jerusalem; 
that  shows  him  every  land  the  sun  shines  on,  and  every 
nation  of  the  globe,  travelling  with  every  luxury  that 
can  make  a journey  easy  and  a road  pleasant;  that  en- 
ables him  to  visit  whatever  is  remarkable  in  every  city 
of  the  universe,  — to  hear  Pasta  at  St.  Petersburgh  in  the 
winter,  and  before  the  year’s  end  to  see  an  Indian  war- 
dance  among  the  red  men  of  the  Rocky  Mountains;  to  sit 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramids  as  it  were  to-day,  and 
ere  two  months  be  over  to  stand  in  the  spray  of  Trolhattan, 
and  join  a wolf-chase  through  the  pine  forests  of  the  north. 
And  not  only  this,  but  to  have  opportunities  of  seeing  life 
on  terms  the  most  intimate,  so  that  society  should  be 
unveiled  to  an  extent  that  few  men  of  any  station  can 
pretend  to;  to  converse  with  the  greatest  and  the  wisest, 
the  most  distinguished  in  rank,  — ay!  and  better  than  all, 
with  the  most  beautiful  women  of  every  land  in  Europe, 
who  depend  on  your  word,  rely  on  your  information,  and  per- 
mit a degree  of  intimacy  which  in  their  own  rank  is  unat- 
tainable ; to  improve  your  mind  by  knowledge  of  languages, 
acquaintance  with  works  of  art,  scenery,  and  more  still  by 
habits  of  intelligence  which  travelling  bestows.’ 

“‘And  to  do  this,’  said  I,  burning  with  impatience  at  a 
picture  that  realized  all  I wished  for,  ‘ to  do  this  — ’ 

“‘Be  a courier!’  said  thirty  voices  in  a cheer.  ‘Vive 
la  Grande  Route!’  and  with  the  word  each  man  drained 
his  glass  to  the  bottom. 

“‘  Vive  la  Grande  Route!’  exclaimed  I,  louder  than  the 
rest;  ‘ and  here  I join  you.’ 

“ From  that  hour  I entered  on  a career  that  each  day  I 
follow  is  becoming  dearer  to  me.  It  is  true  that  I sit  in 
the  rumble  of  the  carriage,  while  monseigneur , or  my  lord, 
reclines  within;  but  would  I exchange  his  ennui  and  de- 
pression for  my  own  light-heartedness  and  jollity?  Would 
I give  up  the  happy  independence  of  all  the  intrigue  and 
plotting  of  the  world  I enjoy,  for  all  his  rank  and  station? 
Does  not  Mont  Blanc  look  as  grand  in  his  hoary  panoply 
to  me  as  to  him;  are  not  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine  as  fair? 

10 


146 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


If  I wander  through,  the  gallery  of  Dresden,  have  I not  the 
sweet  smile  of  the  great  Raphael’s  Madonna  bent  on  me,  as 
blandly  as  it  is  on  him?  Is  not  mine  host,  with  less  of 
ceremony,  far  more  cordial  to  me  than  to  him?  Is  not 
mine  a rank  known  and  acknowledged  in  every  town,  in 
every  village?  Have  I not  a greeting  wherever  I pass? 
Should  sickness  overtake  me,  where  have  I not  a home? 
Where  am  I among  strangers?  Then,  what  care  I for  the 
bill?  — mine  is  a royal  route  where  I never  pay.  And, 
lastly,  how  often  is  the  soubrette  of  the  rumble  as  agreeable 
a companion  as  the  pale  and  care-worn  lady  within? 

“Such  is  my  life.  Many  would  scoff,  and  call  it  menial. 
Let  them,  if  they  will.  I never  felt  it  so;  and  once  more 
I say,  ‘ V i ve  la  Grande  Route ! ’ ” 

“But  your  friends  of  the  Fischer’s  Haus?” 

“A  jolly  set  of  smugglers,  with  whom  for  a month  or 
two  in  summer  I take  a cruise,  less  for  profit  than  pleasure. 
The  blue  water  is  a necessary  of  life  to  the  man  that  has 
been  some  years  at  sea.  My  little  collection  has  been 
made  in  my  wanderings;  and  if  ever  you  come  to  Naples, 
you  must  visit  a cottage  I have  at  Castella  Mare,  where 
you  ’ll  see  something  better  worth  your  looking  at.  And 
now,  though  it  does  not  seem  very  hospitable,  I must  say 
adieu.” 

With  these  words  Mr.  O’Kelly  opened  a drawer,  and 
drew  forth  a blue  jacket  lined  with,  rich  dark  fur  and 
slashed  with  black  braiding;  a greyhound  was  embroi- 
dered in  gold  twist  on  the  arm,  and  a similar  decoration 
ornamented  the  front  of  his  blue-cloth  cap.  “I  start  for 
Genoa  in  half  an  hour.  We’ll  meet  again,  and  often,  I 
hope.” 

“Good-by,”  said  I,  “and  a hundred  thanks  for  a pleasant 
evening,  and  one  of  the  strangest  stories  I ever  heard.  I 
half  wish  I were  a younger  man,  and  I think  I ’d  mount 
the  blue  jacket  too.” 

“It  would  show  you  some  strange  scenes,”  said  Mr. 
O’Kelly,  while  he  continued  to  equip  himself  for  the  road. 
“All  I have  told  is  little  compared  to  what  I might  tell, 
were  I only  to  give  a few  leaves  of  my  life  en  courier  ; but, 


THE  SMUGGLER’S  STORY. 


147 


as  I said  before,  we  ’ll  live  to  meet  again.  Do  you  know 
who  my  party  is  this  morning?” 

“I  can’t  guess.” 

“ My  old  flame,  Miss  Blundell ; she ’s  married  now  and 
has  a daughter,  so  like  what  I remember  herself  once. 
Well,  well,  it’s  a strange  world!  Good-by.” 

With  that  we  shook  hands  for  the  last  time,  and  parted; 
and  l wandered  back  to  Antwerp  when  the  sun  was  rising, 
to  get  into  a bed  and  sleep  for  the  next  eight  hours. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


TABLE-TRAITS. 

Morgan  O’Dogherty  was  wrong  — and,  sooth  to  say, 
he  was  not  often  so  — when  he  pronounced  a Mess  to  be 
“the  perfection  of  dinner  society.”  In  the  first  place, 
there  can  be  no  perfection  anywhere  or  in  anything,  it 
is  evident,  where  ladies  are  not.  Secondly,  a number  of 
persons  so  purely  professional,  and  therefore  so  very  much 
alike  in  their  habits,  tone  of  thinking,  and  expression,  can 
scarcely  be  expected  to  make  up  that  complex  amalgam  so 
indispensable  to  pleasant  society.  Lastly,  the  very  fact 
of  meeting  the  same  people  each  day,  looking  the  very 
same  way  too,  is  a sad  damper  to  that  flow  of  spirits  which 
for  their  free  current  demand  all  the  chances  and  vicissi- 
tudes of  a fresh  audience.  In  a word,  in  the  one  case  a 
man  becomes  like  a Dutch  canal,  standing  stagnant  and 
slow  between  its  trim  banks;  in  the  other,  he  is  a bound- 
ing rivulet,  careering  pleasantly  through  grassy  meadows 
and  smiling  fields,  — now  basking  in  the  gay  sunshine,  now 
lingering  in  the  cool  shade;  at  one  moment  hurrying  along 
between  rocks  and  moss-grown  pebbles,  brawling,  break- 
ing, and  foaming;  at  the  next,  expanding  into  some  little 
lake,  calm  and  deep  and  mirror-like. 

It  is  the  very  chances  and  changes  of  conversation,  its 
ups  and  downs,  its  lights  and  shadows,  — so  like  those  of 
life  itself,  — that  make  its  great  charm;  and  for  this,  gen- 
erally, a mixed  party  gives  the  only  security.  Now,  a Mess 
has  very  little  indeed  of  this  requisite;  on  the  contrary,  its 
great  stronghold  is  the  fact  that  it  offers  an  easy  table-land 
for  all  capacities.  It  has  its  little,  dry,  stale  jokes,  as  flat 
and  as  dull  as  the  orderly  book,  — the  regular  quiz  about 
Jones’s  whiskers,  or  Tobin’s  horse;  the  hackneyed  stories 
about  Simpson  of  Ours,  or  Nokes  of  Yours, — of  which  the 
major  is  never  tired,  and  the  newly-joined  sub.  is  enrap- 


TABLE-TRAITS. 


149 


tured.  Bless  their  honest  hearts!  very  little  fun  goes  far 
in  the  army;  like  the  regimental  allowance  of  wine,  it  will 
never  intoxicate,  and  no  man  is  expected  to  call  for  a fresh 
supply. 

1 have  dined  at  more  Messes  than  any  red-coat  of  them 
all,  at  home  and  abroad,  — cavalry,  artillery,  and  infantry, 
“horse,  foot,  and  dragoons,”  as  Grattan  has  it.  In  gala 
parties,  with  a general  and  his  staff  for  guests;  after  swel- 
tering tield-days,  where  all  the  claret  could  not  clear  your 
throat  of  pipe-clay  and  contract-powder;  in  the  colonies, 
where  flannel  jackets  were  substituted  for  regulation  coats, 
and  land-crabs  and  pepper-pot  for  saddles  and  sirloins;  in 
Connemara,  Calcutta,  or  Corfu,  — it  was  all  the  same : 
ccelum  non  animum,  etc.  Not  but  that  they  had  all  their 
little  peculiarities  among  themselves, — so  much  so,  indeed, 
that  I offer  a fifty,  that,  if  you  set  me  down  blindfolded  at 
any  Mess  in  the  service,  I will  tell  you  what  corps  they 
belong  to  before  the  cheese  appears ; and  before  the  bottle 
goes  half  around,  I ’ll  engage  to  distinguish  the  hussars 
from  the  heavies,  the  fusileers  from  the  light-bobs;  and 
when  the  president  is  ringing  for  more  claret,  it  will  go 
hard  with  me  if  I don’t  make  a shrewd  guess  at  the  num- 
ber of  the  regiment. 

The  great  charm  of  the  Mess  is  to  those  young,  ardent 
spirits  fresh  from  Sandhurst  or  Eton,  sick  of  mathematics 
and  bored  with  false  quantities.  To  them  the  change  is 
indeed  a glorious  one,  and  I ’d  ask  nothing  better  than  to 
be  sixteen,  and  enjoy  it  all;  but  for  the  old  stagers,  it  is 
slow  work  indeed.  A man  curls  his  whiskers  at  forty 
with  far  less  satisfaction  than  he  surveys  their  growth  and 
development  at  eighteen;  he  tightens  his  waist,  too,  at  that 
period,  with  a very  different  sense  of  enjoyment.  His  first 
trip  to  Jamaica  is  little  more  than  a “lark;  ” his  fourth  or 
fifth,  with  a wife  and  four  brats,  is  scarcely  a party  of 
pleasure, — and  all  these  things  react  on  the  Mess.  Be- 
sides, it  is  against  human  nature  itself  to  like  the  people 
who  rival  us;  and  who  could  enjoy  the  jokes  of  a man  who 
stands  between  him  and  a majority? 

Yet,  taking  them  all  in  all,  the  military  “cut  up”  better 
than  any  other  professionals.  The  doctors  might  be  agree- 


150 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


able;  they  know  a vast  deal  of  life,  and  in  a way  too  that 
other  people  never  see  it;  but  meet  them  en  masse , they  are 
little  better  than  body-snatchers.  There  is  not  a malady 
too  dreadful,  nor  an  operation  too  bloody,  to  tell  you  over 
your  soup;  every  slice  of  the  turkey  suggests  an  amputa- 
tion, and  they  sever  a wing  with  the  anatomical  precision 
they  would  extirpate  a thigh  bone.  Life  to  them  has  no 
interest  except  where  it  verges  on  death ; and  from  habit 
and  hardening,  they  forget  that  human  suffering  lias  any 
other  phase  than  a source  of  wealth  to  the  medical 
profession. 

The  lawyers  are  even  worse.  To  listen  to  them,  you 
would  suppose  that  the  highest  order  of  intellect  was  a 
skill  in  chicanery ; that  trick  and  stratagem  were  the  fore- 
most walks  of  talent;  that  to  browbeat  a poor  man  and  to 
confound  a simple  one  were  great  triumphs  of  genius ; and 
that  the  fairest  gift  of  the  human  mind  was  that  which 
enabled  a man  to  feign  every  emotion  of  charity,  benevo- 
lence, pity,  anger,  grief,  and  joy,  for  the  sum  of  twenty 
pounds  sterling,  wrung  from  abject  poverty  and  briefed  by 
an  “honest  attorney.” 

As  to  the  parsons,  I must  acquit  them  honestly  of  any 
portion  of  this  charge.  It  has  been  my  fortune  to  “ assist  ” 
at  more  than  one  visitation  dinner,  and  I can  safely  aver 
that  never  by  any  accident  did  the  conversation  become 
professional,  nor  did  I hear  a word  of  piety  during  the 
entertainment. 

Country  gentlemen  are  scarcely  professional,  however 
the  similarity  of  their  tastes  and  occupations  might  seem 
to  warrant  the  classification, — fox-hunting,  grouse-shoot- 
ing, game-preserving,  road-jobbing,  rent-extracting,  land- 
tilling,  being  propensities  in  common.  They  are  the 
slowest  of  all;  and  the  odds  are  long  against  any  one 
keeping  awake  after  the  conversation  has  taken  its  steady 
turn  into  shorthorns,  Swedish  turnips,  subsoiling,  and 
southdowns. 

Artists  are  occasionally  well  enough,  if  only  for  their 
vanity  and  self-conceit. 

Authors  are  better  still,  for  ditto  and  ditto. 

Actors  are  most  amusing  from  the  innocent  delusion  they 


TABLE-TRAITS. 


151 


labor  under  that  all  that  goes  on  in  life  is  unreal,  except 
what  takes  place  in  Covent  Garden  or  Drury  Lane. 

In  a word,  professional  cliques  are  usually  detestable, 
the  individuals  who  compose  them  being  frequently  admir- 
able ingredients,  but  intolerable  when  unmixed;  and  soci- 
ety, like  a macedoine , is  never  so  good  as  when  its  details 
are  a little  incongruous. 

For  my  own  part,  I know  few  things  better  than  a table 
d’hote,  that  pleasant  reunion  of  all  nations,  from  Stock- 
holm to  Stamboul ; of  every  rank,  from  the  grand-duke  to 
the  bag-man;  men  and  women,  or,  if  you  like  the  phrase 
better,  ladies  and  gentlemen, — some  travelling  for  pleas- 
ure, some  for  profit;  some  on  wedding  tours,  some  in  the 
grief  of  widowhood;  some  rattling  along  the  road  of  life  in 
all  the  freshness  of  youth,  health,  and  well-stored  purses, 
others  creeping  by  the  way-side  cautiously  and  quietly; 
sedate  and  sententious  English,  lively  Italians,  plodding 
Germans,  witty  Frenchmen,  wily  Russians,  and  stupid 
Belgians,  — all  pell-mell,  seated  side  by  side,  and  actually 
shuffled  into  momentary  intimacy  by  soup,  fish,  fowl,  and 
entremets.  The  very  fact  that  you  are  en  route  gives  a 
frankness  and  a freedom  to  all  you  say.  Your  passport 
is  signed,  your  carriage  packed;  to-morrow  you  will  be  a 
hundred  miles  away.  What  matter,  then,  if  the  old  baron 
with  the  white  mustache  has  smiled  at  your  German,  or  if 
the  thin-faced  lady  in  the  Dunstable  bonnet  has  frowned 
at  your  morality?  — you’ll  never,  in  all  likelihood,  meet 
either  again.  You  do  your  best  to  be  agreeable,  — it  is  the 
only  distinction  recognized;  here  are  no  places  of  honor, 
no  favored  guests,  — each  starts  fair  in  the  race,  and  a 
pleasant  course  I have  always  deemed  it. 

Now,  let  no  one,  while  condemning  the  vulgarity  of 
this  taste  of  mine,  — for  such  I anticipate  as  the  ready 
objection,  though  the  dissentient  should  be  a tailor  from 
Bond-street  or  a schoolmistress  from  Brighton, — fora 
moment  suppose  that  I mean  to  include  all  tables  d’hote 
in  this  sweeping  laudation;  far,  very  far  from  it.  I, 
Arthur  O’Leary,  have  travelled  some  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  miles  in  every  quarter  and  region  of  the  globe, 
and  yet  would  have  considerable  difficulty  in  enumerating 


152 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


even  six  such,  as  fairly  to  warrant  the  praise  I have 
pronounced. 

In  the  first  place,  the  table  d’hote,  to  possess  all  the 
requisites  I desire,  should  not  have  its  locale  in  any  first- 
rate  city,  like  Paris,  London,  or  St.  Petersburgh;  no,  it 
should  rather  be  in  Brussels,  Dresden,  Munich,  Berne,  or 
Florence.  Again,  it  should  not  be  in  the  great  overgrown 
mammoth-hotel  of  the  town,  with  three  hundred  daily 
devourers,  and  a steam-engine  to  slice  the  bouilli.  It 
should,  and  will  usually,  be  found  in  some  retired  and 
quiet  spot,  — frequently  within  a small  court,  with  orange- 
trees  round  the  walls,  and  a tiny  modest  jet  d’eau  in  the 
middle;  a glass-door  entering  from  a flight  of  low  steps 
into  a neat  antechamber,  where  an  attentive  but  unobtru- 
sive waiter  is  ready  to  take  your  hat  and  cane,  and, 
instinctively  divining  your  dinner  intentions,  ushers  you 
respectfully  into  the  salon,  and  leans  down  your  chair 
beside  the  place  you  select. 

The  few  guests  already  arrived  have  the  air  of  habitues ; 
they  are  chatting  together  when  you  enter,  but  they  con- 
ceive it  necessary  to  do  the  honors  of  the  place  to  the 
stranger,  and  at  once  include  you  in  the  conversation;  a 
word  or  two  suffices,  and  you  see  that  they  are  not  chance 
folk,  whom  hunger  has  overtaken  at  the  door,  but  daily 
visitors,  who  know  the  house  and  appreciate  it.  The  table 
itself  is  far  from  large,  — at  most  sixteen  persons  could  sit 
down  at  it;  the  usual  number  is  about  twelve  or  fourteen. 
There  is,  if  it  be  summer,  a delicious  bouquet  in  the  midst; 
and  the  snowy  whiteness  of  the  cloth  and  the  clear  lustre 
of  the  water  strike  you  instantly.  The  covers  are  as 
bright  as  when  they  left  the  hands  of  the  silversmith,  and 
the  temperature  of  the  room  at  once  shows  that  nothing 
has  been  neglected  that  can  contribute  to  the  comfort  of 
the  guests.  The  very  plash  of  the  fountain  is  a grateful 
sound,  and  the  long  necks  of  the  hock-bottles,  reposing  in 
the  little  basin,  have  an  air  of  luxury  far  from  unpleasing. 
While  the  champagne  indulges  its  more  southern  character 
in  the  ice-pails  in  the  shade,  a sweet,  faint  odor  of  pine- 
apples and  nectarines  is  diffused  about;  nor  am  I disposed 
to  quarrel  with  the  chance  view  I catch,  between  the 


TABLE-TRAITS. 


153 


orange-trees,  of  a window  where  asparagus,  game,  oranges, 
and  melons  are  grouper’  confusedly  together,  yet  with  a 
harmony  of  color  and  effect  Schneider  would  have  gloried 
in.  There  is  a noiseless  activity  about,  a certain  air  of 
preparation,  — not  such  as  by  bustle  can  interfere  with 
the  placid  enjoyment  you  feel,  but  something  which  de- 
notes care  and  skill.  You  feel,  in  fact,  that  impatience  on 
your  part  would  only  militate  against  your  own  interest, 
and  that  when  the  moment  arrives  for  serving,  the  potage 
has  then  received  the  last  finishing  touch  of  the  artist. 
By  this  time  the  company  are  assembled;  the  majority  are 
men,  but  there  are  four  or  five  ladies.  They  are  en 
chapeau  too;  but  it  is  a toilet  that  shows  taste  and  ele- 
gance, and  the  freshness  — that  delightful  characteristic  of 
foreign  dress  — of  their  light  muslin  dresses  is  in  keeping 
with  all  about.  Then  follows  that  little  pleasant  bustle  of 
meeting;  the  interchange  of  a number  of  small  courtesies, 
which  cost  little  but  are  very  delightful;  the  news  of  the 
theatre  for  the  night;  some  soiree,  well  known,  or  some 
promenade,  forms  the  whole,  — and  we  are  at  table. 

The  destiny  that  made  me  a traveller  has  blessed  me  with 
either  the  contentment  of  the  most  simple  or  the  perfect 
enjoyment  of  the  most  cultivated  cuisine ; and  if  I have 
eaten  tripe  de  roclier  with  Parry  at  the  Pole,  I have  never 
lost  thereby  the  acme  of  my  relish  for  truffles  at  the  Freres. 
Therefore,  trust  me  that  in  my  mention  of  a table  d’hote  I 
have  not  forgotten  the  most  essential  of  its  features,  — for 
this,  the  smallness  and  consequent  selectness  of  the  party, 
is  always  a guarantee. 

Thus,  then,  you  are  at  table;  your  napkin  is  spread,  but 
you  see  no  soup.  The  reason  is  at  once  evident,  and  you 
accept  with  gratefulness  the  little  plate  of  Ostend  oysters, 
each  somewhat  smaller  than  a five-franc  piece,  that  are 
before  you.  Who  would  seek  for  pearls  without  when 
such  treasures  are  to  be  found  within  the  shell,  — cool 
and  juicy  and  succulent;  suggestive  of  delights  to  come, 
and  so  suited  to  the  limpid  glass  of  chablis.  What  pre- 
paratives for  the  potage,  which  already  I perceive  to  be  a 
printaniere. 

But  why  dwell  on  all  this?  These  memoranda  of  mine 


154 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


were  intended  rather  to  form  an  humble  companion  to 
some  of  John  Murray’s  inestimable  treatises  on  the  road; 
some  stray  recollection  of  what  in  my  rambles  had  struck 
me  as  worth  mention;  something  that  might  serve  to 
lighten  a half-hour  here  or  an  evening  there;  some  hint 
for  the  wanderer,  of  a hotel  or  a church  or  a view  or  an 
actor  or  a poet,  a picture  or  a pate,  for  which  his  halting- 
place  is  remarkable,  but  of  whose  existence  he  knew  not. 
And  to  come  back  once  more,  such  a picture  as  I have  pre- 
sented is  but  a weak  and  imperfect  sketch  of  the  Hotel  de 
France  in  Brussels,  — at  least,  of  what  I once  remember  it. 

Poor  Biennais,  he  was  an-  artiste  ! He  commenced  his 
career  under  Cliicaud,  and  rose  to  the  dignity  of  rotisseur 
under  Napoleon.  With  what  enthusiasm  he  used  to  speak 
of  his  successes  during  the  empire,  when  Bonaparte  gave 
him  carte  blanche  to  compose  a dinner  for  a “ party  of 
kings!”  Napoleon  himself  was  but  an  inferior  gastro- 
nome. With  him,  the  great  requisite  was  to  serve  any- 
where and  at  any  moment;  and  though  the  bill  of  fare 
was  a modest  one,  it  was  sometimes  a matter  of  difficulty 
to  prepare  it  in  the  depths  of  the  Black  Forest  or  on  the 
sandy  plains  of  Prussia,  amid  the  mud-covered  fields  of 
Poland  or  the  snows  of  Muscovy.  A poulet,  a cutlet,  and 
a cup  of  coffee  was  the  whole  affair;  but  it  should  be  ready 
as  if  by  magic.  Among  his  followers  were  several  distin- 
guished gourmets.  Cambaceres  was  well  known;  Murat 
also,  and  Deeres,  the  minister  of  marine,  kept  admirable 
tables.  Of  these,  Biennais  spoke  with  ecstasy;  he  remem- 
bered their  various  tastes,  o.nd  would  ever  remark,  when 
placing  some  masterpiece  of  skill  before  you,  how  the  King 
of  Naples  loved  or  the  arch-chancellor  praised  it.  To  him 
the  overthrow  of  the  empire  was  but  the  downfall  of  the 
cuisine;  and  he  saw  nothing  more  affecting  in  the  last 
days  of  Fontainebleau  than  that  the  Emperor  had  left 
untouched  a fondue  lie  had  always  eaten  of  with  delight. 
“After  that,”  said  Biennais,  “I  saw  the  game  was  up.” 
With  the  Hundred  Days  he  was  “restored,”  like  his 
master ; but,  alas ! the  empire  of  casserolles  was  departed ; 
the  thunder  of  the  cannon  foundries,  and  the  roar  of  the 
shot  furnaces  were  more  congenial  sounds  than  the  sim* 


TABLE-TRAITS. 


155 

mering  of  sauces  and  the  gentle  murmur  of  a stew-pan. 
]STo  wonder,  thought  he,  there  should  come  a Waterloo, 
when  the  spirit  of  the  nation  had  thus  degenerated.  Na- 
poleon spent  his  last  days  in  exile;  Biennais  took  his 
departure  for  Belgium.  The  park  was  his  Longwood;  and, 
indeed,  he  himself  saw  invariable  points  of  resemblance 
in  the  two  destinies.  Happily  for  those  who  frequented 
the  Hotel  de  France,  he  did  not  occupy  his  remaining  years 
in  dictating  his  memoirs  to  some  Las  Casas  of  the  kitchen, 
but  persevered  to  the  last  in  the  practice  of  his  great  art, 
and  died,  so  to  speak,  ladle  in  hand. 

To  me  the  Hotel  de  France  has  many  charms.  I remem- 
ber it,  I shall  not  say  how  many  years,  — its  cool,  delight- 
ful salon , looking  out  upon  that  beautiful  little  park  whose 
shady  alleys  are  such  a resource  in  the  evenings  of  summer; 
its  lime  trees,  beneath  which  you  may  sit  and  sip  your 
coffee,  as  you  watch  the  groups  that  pass  and  repass  before 
you,  weaving  stories  to  yourself  which  become  thicker  and 
thicker  as  the  shade  deepens,  and  the  flitting  shapes  are 
barely  seen  as  they  glide  along  the  silent  alleys,  while  a 
distant  sound  of  music  — some  air  of  the  Fatherland  — is 
all  that  breaks  the  stillness,  and  you  forget  in  the  dreamy 
silence  that  you  are  in  the  midst  of  a great  city. 

The  Hotel  de  France  has  other  memories  than  these,  too. 
I ’m  not  sure  that  I shall  not  make  a confession,  yet  some- 
how I half  shrink  from  it.  You  might  call  it  a love  adven- 
ture, and  I should  not  like  that;  besides,  there  is  scarcely 
a moral  in  it,  — though  who  knows? 


CHAPTER  X. 


A DILEMMA. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  May  — I won’t  confess  to  the 
year  — that  I found  myself,  after  trying  various  hotels  in 
the  Place  Royale,  at  last  deposited  at  the  door  of  the  Hotel 
de  France.  It  seemed  to  me,  in  my  then  ignorance,  like 
a pis  alley',  when  the  postilion  said,  “Let  us  try  the 
France,”  and  little  prepared  me  for  the  handsome,  but 
somewhat  small,  hotel  before  me.  It  was  nearly  five 
o’clock  when  I arrived,  and  I had  only  time  to  make 
some  slight  change  in  my  dress,  when  the  bell  sounded 
for  table  d'hote. 

The  guests  were  already  seated  when  I entered,  but  a 
place  had  been  reserved  for  me,  which  completed  the  table. 
I was  a young  — perhaps  after  reading  a little  farther 
you’ll  say  a very  young  — traveller  at  the  time,  but  was 
soon  struck  by  the  quiet  and  decorous  style  in  which  the 
dinner  was  conducted.  The  servants  were  prompt,  silent, 
and  observant;  the  guests,  easy  and  affable;  the  equipage 
of  the  table  was  even  elegant;  and  the  cookery,  Biennais! 
I was  the  only  Englishman  present,  the  party  being  made 
up  of  Germans  and  French;  but  all  spoke  together  like 
acquaintances,  and  before  the  dinner  had  proceeded  far 
were  polite  enough  to  include  me  in  the  conversation. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  sat  a large  and  strikingly  hand- 
some man,  of  about  eight-and-thirty  or  forty  years  of  age, 
— his  dress  a dark  frock,  richly  braided,  and  ornamented 
by  the  decorations  of  several  foreign  orders ; his  forehead 
high  and  narrow,  the  temples  strongly  indented;  his  nose 
arched  and  thin,  and  his  upper  lip  covered  by  a short 
black  mustache  raised  at  either  extremity  and  slightly 
curled,  as  we  see  occasionally  in  a Vandyck  picture; 
indeed,  his  dark  brown  features,  somewhat  sad  in  their 
expression,  his  rich  hazel  eyes  and  long  waving  hair,  gave 


A DILEMMA. 


157 


him  all  the  character  that  great  artist  loved  to  perpetuate 
on  his  canvas.  He  spoke  seldom,  but  when  he  did  there 
was  something  indescribably  pleasing  in  the  low,  mellow 
tones  of  his  voice;  a slight  smile  too  lit  up  his  features  at 
these  times,  and  his  manner  had  in  it — I know  not  what; 
some  strange  power  it  seemed,  that  made  whoever  he 
addressed  feel  pleased  and  flattered  by  his  notice  of  them, 
just  as  we  see  a few  words  spoken  by  a sovereign  caught 
up  and  dwelt  upon  by  those  around. 

At  his  side  sat  a lady,  of  whom  when  I first  came  into 
the  room  I took  little  notice;  her  features  seemed  pleas- 
ing, but  no  more.  But  gradually,  as  I watched  her,  I was 
struck  by  the  singular  delicacy  of  traits  that  rarely  make 
their  impression  at  first  sight.  She  was  about  twenty-five, 
perhaps  twenty-six,  but  of  a character  of  looks  that  pre- 
serves something  almost  childish  in  their  beauty.  She 
was  pale,  and  with  brown  hair, — that  light  sunny  brown 
that  varies  in  its  hue  with  every  degree  of  light  upon  it; 
her  face  was  oval  and  inclined  to  plumpness;  her  eyes 
were  large,  full,  and  lustrous,  with  an  expression  of  soft- 
ness and  candor  that  won  on  you  wonderfully  the  longer 
you  looked  at  them;  her  nose  was  short,  perhaps  faultily 
so,  but  beautifully  chiselled,  and  fine  as  a Greek  statue; 
her  mouth,  rather  large,  displayed  however  two  rows  of 
teeth  beautifully  regular  and  of  snowy  whiteness;  while 
her  chin,  rounded  and  dimpled,  glided  by  an  easy  transi- 
tion into  a throat  large  and  most  gracefully  formed.  Her 
figure,  as  well  as  I could  judge,  was  below  the  middle  size, 
and  inclined  to  embonpoint ; and  her  dress,  denoting  some 
national  peculiarity  of  which  I was  ignorant,  was  a velvet 
bodice  laced  in  front  and  ornamented  with  small  silver 
buttons,  which  terminated  in  a white  muslin  skirt;  a small 
cap,  something  like  what  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  is  usually 
represented  in,  sat  on  the  back  of  her  head  and  fell  in  deep 
lace  folds  on  her  shoulders.  Lastly,  her  hands  were  small, 
white,  and  dimpled,  and  displayed  on  her  taper  and  rounded 
fingers  several  rings  of  apparently  great  value. 

I have  been  somewhat  lengthy  in  my  description  of 
these  two  persons,  and  can  scarcely  ask  my  reader  to 
accompany  me  round  the  circle;  however,  it  is  with  them 


158 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


principally  I have  to  do.  The  others  at  table  were  remark- 
able enough.  There  was  a leading  member  of  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies, — an  ex-minister, — a tall,  dark-browed,  ill- 
favored  man,  with  a retiring  forehead  and  coal-black  eyes ; 
he  was  a man  of  great  cleverness,  spoke  eloquently  and 
well,  and  was  singularly  open  and  frank  in  giving  his 
opinion  on  the  politics  of  the  time.  There  was  a German 
or  two,  from  the  grand-duchy  of  something, — somewhat 
proud,  reserved  personages,  as  all  the  Germans  of  petty 
States  are;  they  talked  little,  and  were  evidently  impressed 
with  the  power  they  possessed  of  tantalizing  the  company 
by  not  divulging  the  intention  of  the  Gross  Herzog  of 
Hoch  Donnerstadt  regarding  the  present  prospects  of 
Europe.  There  were  three  Frenchmen  and  two  French 
ladies,  all  pleasant,  easy,  and  conversable  people;  there 
was  a doctor  from  Louvain,  a shrewd  intelligent  man;  a 
Prussian  major  and  his  wife, — well-bred,  quiet  people, 
and,  like  all  Prussians,  polite  without  inviting  acquaint- 
ance. An  Austrian  secretary  of  legation,  a wine  merchant 
from  Bordeaux,  and  a celebrated  pianist  completed  the 
party. 

I have  now  put  my  readers  in  possession  of  information 
which  I only  obtained  after  some  days  myself;  for  though 
one  or  other  of  these  personages  was  occasionally  absent 
from  table  d’hote,  I soon  perceived  that  they  were  all  fre- 
quenters of  the  house,  and  well  known  there. 

If  the  guests  were  seated  at  table  wherever  chance  or 
accident  might  place  them,  I could  perceive  that  a tone  of 
deference  was  always  used  to  the  tall  man,  who  invariably 
maintained  his  place  at  the  head;  and  an  air  of  even 
greater  courtesy  was  assumed  towards  the  lady  beside 
him,  who  was  his  wife.  He  was  always  addressed  as 
Monsieur  le  Comte,  and  her  title  of  Countess  was  never 
forgotten  in  speaking  to  her.  During  dinner,  whatever 
little  chit-chat  or  gossip  was  the  talk  of  the  day  was  spe- 
cially offered  up  to  her.  The  younger  guests  occasionally 
ventured  to  present  a bouquet,  and  even  the  rugged  min- 
ister himself  accomplished  a more  polite  bow  in  accosting 
her  than  he  could  have  summoned  up  for  his  presentation 
to  royalty.  To  all  these  little  attentions  she  returned  a 


A DILEMMA. 


159 


smile  or  a look  or  a word,  or  a gesture  with  her  white 
hand,  never  exciting  jealousy  by  any  undue  degree  of 
favor,  and  distributing  her  honors  with  the  practised 
equanimity  of  one  accustomed  to  it. 

Dinner  over  and  coffee,  a handsome  britzka,  drawn  by 
two  splendid  dark-bay  horses,  would  drive  up,  and  Madame 
la  Comtesse,  conducted  to  the  carriage  by  her  husband, 
would  receive  the  homage  of  the  whole  party,  as  they 
stood  to  let  her  pass.  The  count  would  then  linger  some 
twenty  minutes  or  so,  and  take  his  leave  to  wander  for  an 
hour  about  the  park,  and  afterwards  to  the  theatre,  where 
I used  to  see  him  in  a private  box  with  his  wife. 

Such  was  the  little  party  at  the  France  when  I took  up 
my  residence  there  in  the  month  of  May,  and  gradually 
one  dropped  off  after  another  as  the  summer  wore  on. 
The  Germans  went  back  to  saner  kraut  and  kreutzer 
whist;  the  secretary  of  legation  was  on  leave;  the  wine 
merchant  was  off  to  St.  Petersburg;  the  pianist  was  in 
the  bureau  he  once  directed, — and  so  on,  leaving  our  party 
reduced  to  the  count  and  madame,  a stray  traveller,  a deaf 
abbe,  and  myself. 

The  dog-days  in  a Continental  city  are,  every  one  knows, 
stupid  and  tiresome  enough.  Every  one  has  taken  his 
departure  either  to  his  chateau,  if  he  has  one,  or  to  the 
watering-places;  the  theatre  has  no  attraction,  even  if 
the  heat  permitted  one  to  visit  it;  the  streets  are  empty, 
parched,  and  grass-grown;  and  except  the  arrival  and 
departure  of  that  incessant  locomotive  John  Bull,  there 
is  no  bustle  or  stir  anywhere.  Hapless,  indeed,  is  the 
condition  then  of  the  man  who  is  condemned  from  any 
accident  to  toil  through  this  dreary  season;  to  wander 
about  in  solitude  the  places  he  has  seen  filled  by  pleasant 
company;  to  behold  the  park  and  promenades  given  up  to 
Flemish  bonnes  or  Norman  nurses,  where  he  was  wont  to 
glad  his  eye  with  the  sight  of  bright  eyes  and  trim  shapes, 
flitting  past  in  all  the  tasty  elegance  of  Parisian  toilette ; 
to  see  the  lazy  frotteur  sleeping  away  his  hours  at  the 
porte-cochere,  which  a month  before  thundered  with  the 
deep  roll  of  equipage  coming  and  going.  All  this  is  very 
sad,  and  disposes  one  to  become  dull  and  discontented  too. 


160 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


For  what  reason  I was  detained  at  Brussels  it  is  unneces* 
sary  to  inquire.  Some  delay  in  remittances,  if  I remember 
aright,  had  their  share  in  the  cause.  Who  ever  travelled 
without  having  cursed  his  banker  or  his  agent  or  his  uncle 
or  his  guardian,  or  somebody  in  short  who  had  a deal  of 
money  belonging  to  him  in  his  hands,  and  would  not  send 
it  forward?  In  all  my  long  experience  of  travelling  and 
travellers,  I don’t  remember  meeting  with  one  person,  who 
if  it  were  not  for  such  mischances  would  not  have  been 
amply  supplied  with  cash.  Some  with  a knowing  wink 
throw  the  blame  on  the  “Governor;”  others,  more  openly 
indignant,  confound  Coutts  and  Drummond;  a stray  Irish- 
man will  now  and  then  damn  the  “tenantry  that  haven’t 
paid  up  the  last  November;”  but  none,  no  matter  how 
much  their  condition  bespeaks  that  out-o’-elbows  habit 
which  a ways-and-means  style  of  life  contracts,  will  ever 
confess  to  the  fact  that  their  expectations  are  as  blank  as 
their  banker’s  book,  and  that  the  only  land  they  are  ever 
to  pretend  to  is  a post-obit  right  in  some  six-feet-by-two  in 
a churchyard.  And  yet  the  world  is  full  of  such  people, 
well-informed,  pleasant,  good-looking  folk,  who  inhabit 
first-rate  hotels;  drink,  dine,  and  dress  well;  frequent 
theatres  and  promenades;  spend  their  winters  at  Paris 
or  Florence  or  Rome;  their  summers  at  Baden  or  Ems 
or  Interlachen;  have  a strange  half-intimacy  with  men  in 
the  higher  circles,  and  occasionally  dine  with  them;  are 
never  heard  of  in  any  dubious  or  unsafe  affair,  are  reputed 
safe  fellows  to  talk  to;  know  every  one,  from  the  horse- 
dealer  who  will  give  credit  to  the  Jew  who  will  advance 
cash;  and  notwithstanding  that  they  neither  gamble  nor 
bet  nor  speculate,  yet  contrive  to  live  — ay,  and  well,  too 
— without  any  known  resources  whatever.  If  English 
(and  they  are  for  the  most  part  so),  they  usually  are  called 
by  some  well-known  name  of  aristocratic  reputation  in  Eng- 
land: they  are  thus  Villiers  or  Paget  or  Seymour  or  Percy, 
which  on  the  Continent  is  already  a kind  of  half-nobility 
at  once;  and  the  question  which  seemingly  needs  no  reply, 
“Ah,  vous  etes  parent  de  mi  lord!”  is  a receipt  in  full 
rank  anywhere. 

These  men  — and  who  that  knows  anything  of  the  Conti- 


A DILEMMA. 


1G1 


nent  has  not  met  such  everywhere  — are  the  great  riddles 
of  our  century;  and  I’d  rather  give  a reward  for  their 
secret  than  all  the  discoveries  about  perpetual  motion,  or 
longitude  or  Northwest  Passages,  that  ever  were  heard  of. 
And  strange  it  is,  too,  no  one  has  ever  blabbed.  Some 
have  emerged  from  this  misty  state  to  inherit  large  for- 
tunes and  live  in  the  best  style;  yet  I have  never  heard  tell 
of  a single  man  having  turned  king’s  evidence  on  his  fellows. 
And  yet  what  a talent  theirs  must  be,  let  any  man  confess 
who  has  waited  three  posts  for  a remittance  without  any 
tidings  of  its  arrival!  Think  of  the  hundred  and  one  petty 
annoyances  and  ironies  to  which  he  is  subject!  He  fancies 
that  the  very  waiters  know  he  is  a sec  ; that  the  landlord 
looks  sour,  and  the  landlady  austere;  the  very  clerk  in  the 
post-office  appears  to  say  “No  letter  for  you,  sir,”  with  a 
gibing  and  impertinent  tone.  From  that  moment,  too, 
a dozen  expensive  tastes  that  he  never  dreamed  of  before 
enter  his  head:  he  wants  to  purchase  a hack  or  give  a 
dinner  party  or  bet  at  a race-course,  principally  because 
he  has  not  got  a sou  in  his  pocket,  and  he  is  afraid  it  may 
be  guessed  by  others,  — such  is  the  fatal  tendency  to  strive 
or  pretend  to  something  which  has  no  other  value  in  our 
eyes  than  the  effect  it  may  have  on  our  acquaintances, 
regardless  of  what  sacrifices  it  may  demand  the  exercise. 

Forgive,  I pray,  this  long  digression,  which  although  I 
hope  not  without  its  advantages  would  scarcely  have  been 
entered  into  were  it  not  a propos  to  myself.  And  to  go 
back,  — I began  to  feel  excessively  uncomfortable  at  the 
delay  of  my  money.  My  first  care  every  morning  was  to 
repair  to  the  post-office;  sometimes  I arrived  before  it  was 
open,  and  had  to  promenade  up  and  down  the  gloomy  Rue 
de  l’Evecque  till  the  clock  struck;  sometimes  the  mail 
would  be  late  (a  foreign  mail  is  generally  late  when  the 
weather  is  peculiarly  fine  and  the  roads  good  !);  but  always 
the  same  answer  came,  “Rien  pour  vous,  Monsieur 
O’Leary;”  and  at  last  I imagined  from  the  way  the 
fellow  spoke,  that  he  had  set  the  response  to  a tune, 
and  sang  it. 

Beranger  has  celebrated  in  one  of  his  very  prettiest 
lyrics  “how  happy  one  is  at  twenty  in  a garret.”  I have 

11 


162 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


no  doubt,  for  my  part,  that  the  vicinity  of  the  slates  and 
the  poverty  of  the  apartment  would  have  much  contributed 
to  my  peace  of  mind  at  the  time  1 speak  of.  The  fact  of  a 
magnificently  furnished  salon,  a splendid  dinner  every  day, 
champagne  and  Seltzer  promiscuously,  cab  fares  and  theatre 
tickets  innumerable  being  all  scored  against  me  were  sad 
dampers  to  my  happiness ; and  from  being  one  of  the  cheer- 
iest and  most  light-hearted  of  fellows,  I sank  into  a state 
of  fidgety  and  restless  impatience,  the  nearest  thing  I ever 
remember  to  low  spirits. 

Such  was  I one  day  when  the  post,  which  I had  been 
watching  anxiously  from  mid-day,  had  not  arrived  at  five 
o’clock.  Leaving  word  with  the  commissionnaire  to  wait 
and  report  to  me  at  the  hotel,  1 turned  back  to  the  table 
d’hote.  By  accident,  the  only  guests  were  the  count  and 
madame.  There  they  were,  as  accurately  dressed  as  ever; 
so  handsome  and  so  happy-looking;  so  attached,  too,  in 
their  manner  towards  each  other, — that  nice  balance  be- 
tween affection  and  courtesy  which  before  the  world  is  so 
captivating.  Disturbed  as  were  my  thoughts,  I could  not 
help  feeling  struck  by  their  bright  and  pleasant  looks. 

“Ah,  a family  party!”  said  the  count,  gayly,  as  I 
entered,  while  madame  bestowed  on  me  one  of  her  very 
sweetest  smiles. 

The  restraint  of  strangers  removed,  they  spoke  as  if  I 
had  been  an  old  friend,  — chatting  away  about  everything 
and  everybody,  in  a tone  of  frank  and  easy  confidence  per- 
fectly delightful;  occasionally  deigning  to  ask  if  I did  not 
agree  with  them  in  their  opinions,  and  seeming  to  enjoy 
the  little  I ventured  to  say,  with  a pleasure  I felt  to  be 
most  flattering.  The  count’s  quiet  and  refined  manner, 
the  easy  flow  of  his  conversation,  replete  as  it  was  with 
information  and  amusement,  formed  a most  happy  contrast 
with  the  brillimt  sparkle  of  madame’s  lively  sallies;  for 
she  seemed  rather  disposed  to  indulge  a vein  of  slight 
satire,  but  so  tempered  with  good  feeling  and  kindliness 
withal  that  you  would  not  for  the  world  forego  the  pleas- 
ure it  afforded.  Long,  long  before  the  dessert  appeared  I 
ceased  to  think  of  my  letter  or  my  money,  and  did  not 
remember  that  such  things  as  bankers,  agents,  or  stock- 


A DILEMMA. 


1H3 

brokers  were  in  the  universe.  Apparently  they  had  been 
great  travellers;  had  seen  every  city  in  Europe,  and  visited 
every  court;  knew  all  the  most  distinguished  people,  and 
many  of  the  sovereigns  intimately;  and  little  stories  of 
Metternich,  bon  mots  of  Talleyrand,  anecdotes  of  Goethe 
and  Chateaubriand,  seasoned  the  conversation  with  an 
interest  which  to  a young  man  like  myself  was  all- 
engrossing. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  the  commissionnaire  called 
out,  “No  letter  for  Monsieur  O’Leary!”  I immediately 
became  pale  and  faint;  and  though  the  count  was  too  well 
bred  to  take  any  direct  notice  of  what  he  saw  was  caused 
by  my  disappointment,  he  contrived  adroitly  to  direct  some 
observation  to  madame,  which  relieved  me  from  any  bur- 
den of  the  conversation. 

“What  hour  did  you  order  the  carriage,  Duischka?” 
said  he. 

“ At  half-past  six.  The  forest  is  so  cool  that  I like  to 
go  slowly  through  it.” 

“That  will  give  us  ample  time  for  a walk,  too,”  said  he; 
“and  if  Monsieur  O’Leary  will  joiu  us,  the  pleasure  wil* 
be  all  the  greater.” 

I hesitated,  and  stammered  out  an  apology  about  a head- 
ache, or  something  of  the  sort. 

“ ihe  drive  will  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  you,’ 
said  madame;  “and  the  strawberries  and  cream  of  Boits 
fort  will  complete  the  cure.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  the  count,  as  I shook  my  head,  half 
sadly,  “La  comtesse  is  infallible  as  a doctor.” 

“And,  like  all  the  faculty,  very  angry  when  her  skill  is 
called  in  question,”  said  she. 

“Go,  then,  and  find  your  shawl,  Madame,”  said  he,  “and, 
meanwhile,  Monsieur  and  I will  discuss  our  liqueur,  and  be 
ready  for  you.” 

Madame  smiled  gayly,  as  if  having  carried  her  point, 
and  left  the  room. 

The  door  was  scarcely  closed  when  the  count  drew  his 
chair  closer  to  mine,  and,  with  a look  of  kindliness  and 
good  nature  I cannot  convey,  said,  “ I am  going,  Monsieur 
O’Leary,  to  take  a liberty  — a very  great  liberty  indeed 


164 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


— with  you,  and  perhaps  you  may  not  forgive  it.”  He 
paused  for  a minute  or  two,  as  if  waiting  some  intimation 
on  my  part.  I merely  muttered  something  intended  to 
express  my  willingness  to  accept  of  what  he  hinted,  and 
he  resumed.  “You  are  a very  young  man;  I not  a very 
old,  but  a very  experienced  one.  There  are  occasions  in 
life  in  which  such  knowledge  as  I possess  of  the  world 
and  its  ways  may  be  of  great  service.  Now,  without  for 
an  instant  obtruding  myself  on  your  confidence,  or  inquir- 
ing into  affairs  which  are  strictly  your  own,  I wish  to  say 
that  my  advice  and  counsel,  if  you  need  either,  are  com- 
pletely at  your  service.  A few  minutes  ago  I perceived 
that  you  were  distressed  at  hearing  there  was  no  letter  for 
you  — ” 

“I  know  not  how  to  thank  you,”  said  I,  “for  such  kind- 
ness as  this ; and  the  best  proof  of  my  sincerity  is  to  tell 
you  the  position  in  which  I am  placed.” 

“One  word,  first,”  added  he,  laying  his  hand  gently  on 
my  arm,  — “ one  word.  Do  you  promise  to  accept  of  my 
advice  and  assistance  when  you  have  revealed  the  circum- 
stances you  allude  to?  If  not,  I beg  I may  not  hear  it.” 

“Your  advice  I am  most  anxious  for,”  said  I,  hastily. 

“ The  other  was  an  awkward  word,  and  I see  that  your 
delicacy  has  taken  the  alarm.  But  come,  it  is  spoken  now, 
and  can’t  be  recalled.  I must  have  my  way;  so  go  on.” 

I seized  his  hand  with  enthusiasm,  and  shook  it  heartily. 
“Yes,”  said  I,  “you  shall  have  your  way.  I have  neither 
shame  nor  concealment  before  you.”  And  then,  in  as  few 
words  as  I could  explain  such  tangled  and  knotted  webs  as 
envelope  all  matters  where  legacies  and  lawyers  and  set- 
tlements and  securities  and  mortgages  enter,  I put  him  in 
possession  of  the  fact  that  I had  come  abroad  with  the 
assurance  from  my  man  of  business  of  a handsome  yearly 
income,  to  be  increased  after  a time  to  something  very 
considerable;  that  I was  now  two  months  in  expectation 
of  remittances,  which  certain  forms  in  Chancery  had  de- 
layed and  deferred;  and  that  I watched  the  post  each  day 
witli  an  anxious  heart  for  means  to  relieve  me  from  certain 
trifling  debts  I had  incurred,  and  enable  me  to  proceed  on 
my  journey. 


A DILEMMA. 


165 


The  count  listened  with  the  most  patient  attention  to  my 
story,  only  interfering  once  or  twice  when  some  difficulty 
demanded  explanation,  and  then  suffering  me  to  proceed  to 
the  end.  Then  leisurely  withdrawing  a pocket-book  from 
the  breast  of  his  frock,  he  opened  it  slowly. 

“My  dear  young  friend,”  said  he,  in  a measured  and 
almost  solemn  tone,  “ every  hour  that  a man  is  in  debt  is  a 
year  spent  in  slavery.  Your  creditor  is  your  master;  it 
matters  not  whether  a kind  or  a severe  one,  the  sense  of 
obligation  you  incur  saps  the  feeling  of  manly  independ- 
ence which  is  the  first  charm  of  youth,  — and,  believe  me, 
it  is  always  through  the  rents  in  moral  feeling  that  our 
happiness  oozes  out  quickest.  Here  are  five  thousand 
francs;  take  as  much  as  you  want.  With  a friend,  and  I 
insist  upon  you  believing  me  to  be  such,  these  things  have 
no  character  of  obligation:  I accommodate  you  to-day; 
you  do  the  same  for  me  to-morrow.  And  now  put  these 
notes  in  your  pocket;  I see  Madame  is  waiting  for  us.” 

For  a second  or  two  I felt  so  overpowered  I could  not 
speak.  The  generous  confidence  and  friendly  interest  of 
one  so  thoroughly  a stranger  were  too  much  for  my  aston- 
ished and  gratified  mind.  At  last  I recovered  myself 
enough  to  reply,  and  assuring  my  worthy  friend  that 
when  I spoke  of  my  debts  they  were  in  reality  merely 
trifling  ones;  that  I had  still  ample  funds  in  my  banker’s 
hands  for  all  necessary  outlay,  and  that  by  the  next  post, 
perhaps,  my  long-wished-for  letter  might  arrive. 

“And  if  it  should  not?”  interposed  he,  smiling. 

“Why  then  the  next  day  — ” 

“And  if  not  then?”  continued  he,  with  a half-quizzing 
look  at  my  embarrassment. 

“Then  your  five  thousand  francs  shall  tremble  for  it.” 

“ That ’s  a hearty  fellow ! ” cried  he,  grasping  my  hand 
in  both  of  his;  “and  now  I feel  I was  not  deceived  in  you. 
My  first  meeting  with  Metternich  was  very  like  this.  I 
was  at  Presburg  in  the  year  1804,  just  before  the  campaign 
of  Austerlitz  opened  — ” 

“You  are  indeed  most  gallant,  Messieurs,”  said  the  coun- 
tess, opening  the  door,  and  peeping  in.  “Am  I to  suppose 
that  cigars  and  maraschino  are  better  company  than  mine?” 


166 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


We  rose  at  once  to  make  our  excuses;  and  thus  I lost  the 
story  of  Prince  Metternich,  in  which  I already  felt  an  un- 
common interest  from  the  similarity  of  the  adventure  to 
my  own,  though  whether  I was  to  represent  the  prince  or 
the  count  I could  not  even  guess. 

I was  soon  seated  beside  the  countess  in  the  luxurious 
britzka;  the  count  took  his  place  on  the  box,  and  away  we 
rattled  over  the  stones  through  the  Porte  de  Namur,  and 
along  the  pretty  suburbs  of  Etterbech,  where  we  left  the 
high  road,  and  entered  the  Bois  de  Cambre  by  that  long 
and  beautiful  allee  which  runs  on  for  miles,  like  some  vast 
aisle  in  a Gothic  cathedral,  — the  branches  above  bending 
into  an  arched  roof,  and  the  tall  beech-stems  standing  like 
the  pillars. 

The  pleasant  odor  of  the  forest,  the  tempered  light,  the 
noiseless  roll  of  the  carriage,  gave  a sense  of  luxury  to 
the  drive  I can  remember  vividly  to  this  hour.  Not  that 
my  enjoyment  of  these  things  was  my  only  one;  far  from 
it.  The  pretty  countess  talked  away  about  everything  that 
came  uppermost,  in  that  strain  of  spirited  and  lively  chit- 
chat which  needs  not  the  sweetest  voice  and  the  most  fas- 
cinating look  to  make  it  most  captivating.  I felt  like  one 
in  a dream;  the  whole  thing  was  fairy  land;  and  whether 
I looked  into  the  depths  of  the  leafy  wood,  where  some 
horsemen  might  now  and  then  be  seen  to  pass  at  a gallop, 
or  my  eyes  fell  upon  that  small  and  faultless  foot  that 
rested  on  the  velvet  cushion  in  the  carriage,  I could  not 
trust  the  reality  of  the  scene,  and  could  only  mutter  to 
myself,  “What  hast  thou  ever  done,  Arthur  O’Leary,  or 
thy  father  before  thee,  to  deserve  happiness  like  this?” 

Dear  and  kind  reader,  it  may  be  your  fortune  to  visit 
Brussels;  and  although  not  exactly  under  such  circum- 
stances as  I have  mentioned  here,  let  me  advise  you,  even 
without  a beautiful  Polonaise  for  your  companion,  to  make 
a trip  to  Boitsfort,  a small  village  in  the  wood  of  Soignies. 
Of  course  your  nationality  will  lead  you  to  Waterloo;  and 
equally  of  course,  if  you  have  any  tact  (which  far  be  it 
from  me  not  to  suppose  you  gifted  with)  you’ll  not  dine 
there,  the  little  miserable  cabarets  that  are  called  restau- 
rants being  wretched  beyond  description;  you  may  have  a 


A DILEMMA. 


167 


glass  of  wine,  — and  if  so,  take  champagne,  for  they  can- 
not adulterate  it, — but  don’t  venture  on  a dinner,  if  you 
hope  to  enjoy  one  again  for  a week  after.  Well,  then, 
“having  dune  your  Waterloo,”  as  the  cockneys  say,  seen 
Sergeant  Cotton  and  the  church,  La  Haye  Sainte,  Hougo- 
mont,  and  Lord  Anglesey’s  boot, — take  your  road  back, 
not  by  that  eternal  and  noisy  chaussee  you  have  come  by, 
but  turn  off  to  the  right,  as  if  going  to  Wavre,  and  enter 
the  forest  by  an  earth  road,  where  you  ’ll  neither  meet 
wagons  nor  postilions  nor  even  a “’pike.”  Your  coach- 
man will  say,  “Where  to?”  Reply,  “Boitsfort,” — which, 
for  safety,  pronounce  “Boshfort,” — and  lie  back  and  enjoy 
yourself.  About  six  miles  of  a delightful  drive,  all  through 
forest,  will  bring  you  to  a small  village  beside  a little  lake 
surrounded  by  hills,  not  mountains,  but  still  waving  and 
broken  in  outline,  and  shaded  with  wood.  The  red-tiled 
roofs,  the  pointed  gables,  the  green  jalousies,  and  the 
background  of  dark  foliage  will  all  remind  you  of  one  of 
Berghem’s  pictures;  and  if  a lazy  Fleming  or  so  are  seen 
lounging  over  the  little  parapet  next  the  water,  they  ’ll  not 
injure  the  effect.  Passing  over  the  little  bridge,  you  arrive 
in  front  of  a long,  low,  two-storied  house,  perforated  by  an 
arched  door-way  leading  into  the  court;  over  the  door  is 
an  inscription,  which  at  once  denotes  the  object  of  the 
establishment,  and  you  read,  “Monsieur  Dubos  fait  noces 
et  festins.”  Not  that  the  worthy  individual  officiates  in 
any  capacity  resembling  the  famed  Vulcan  of  the  North: 
as  far  be  it  from  him  to  invade  the  prerogative  of  others 
as  for  any  to  rival  him  in  his  own  peculiar  walk.  No; 
Monsieur  D.’s  functions  are  limited  to  those  delicate  de- 
vices which  are  deemed  the  suitable  diet  of  newly-married 
couples, — those  petlts  plats  which  are,  like  the  orange- 
flower,  only  to  be  employed  on  great  occasions.  And  as 
such  he  is  unrivalled;  for  notwithstanding  the  simple  and 
unpretending  exterior,  this  little  rural  tavern  can  boast 
the  most  perfect  cook  and  the  best-stored  cellar.  Here 
may  be  found  the  earliest  turkey  of  the  year,  with  a dowry 
of  truffles;  here,  the  first  peas  of  spring,  the  newest  straw- 
berries and  the  richest  cream,  iced  champagne  and  grapy 
Hermitage,  Steinberger  and  Joliannisberg,  are  all  at  your 


168 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


orders.  You  may  dine  in  the  long  salon , en  cabinet ; in 
the  garden,  or  in  the  summer-house  over  the  lake,  where 
the  carp  is  flapping  his  tail  in  the  clear  water,  the  twin- 
brother  of  him  at  table.  The  garden  beneath  sends  up  its 
delicious  odors  from  beds  of  every  brilliant  hue;  the  sheep 
are  moving  homeward  along  the  distant  hills  to  the  tinkle 
of  the  faint  bell;  the  plash  of  an  oar  disturbs  the  calm 
water  as  the  fisherman  skims  along  the  lake,  and  the  sub- 
dued murmurs  of  the  little  village  all  come  floating  in  the 
air,  — pleasant  sounds,  and  full  of  home  thoughts.  Well, 
well ! to  be  sure  I am  a bachelor,  and  know  nothing  of  such 
matters;  but  it  strikes  me  I should  like  to  be  married  now 
and  then,  and  go  eat  my  wedding-dinners  at  Boitsfort! 
And  now  once  more  let  me  come  back  to  my  narrative,  — 
for  leaving  which  I should  ask  your  pardon,  were  it  not 
that  the  digression  is  the  best  part  of  the  whole,  and  I 
should  never  forgive  myself  if  I had  not  told  you  not  to 
stop  at  Brussels  without  dining  at  Boitsfort. 

When  we  reached  Boitsfort,  a waiter  conducted  us  at 
once  to  a little  table  in  the  garden  where  the  strawberries 
and  the  iced  champagne  were  in  waiting.  Here  and  there, 
at  some  distance,  were  parties  of  the  Brussels  bourgeoisie 
enjoying  themselves  at  their  coffee,  or  with  ice;  while  a 
large  salon  that  occupied  one  wing  of  the  building  was 
given  up  to  some  English  travellers,  whose  loud  speech 
and  boisterous  merriment  bespoke  them  of  that  class  one 
is  always  ashamed  to  meet  with  out  of  England. 

“Your  countrymen  are  very  merry  yonder,”  said  the 
countess,  as  a more  uproarious  burst  than  ever  broke  from 
the  party. 

“Yes,”  said  the  count,  perceiving  that  I felt  uncomfort- 
able at  the  allusion,  “Englishmen  always  carry  London 
about  with  them  wherever  they  go.  Meet  them  in  the 
Caucasus,  and  you  ’ll  find  that  they  ’ll  have  some  imita- 
tion of  a Blackwall  dinner  or  a Greenwich  party.” 

“How  comes  it,”  said  T,  amazed  at  the  observation,  “that 
you  know  these  places  you  mention?” 

“ Oh,  my  dear  sir,  I have  been  very  much  about  the  world 
in  my  time,  and  have  always  made  it  my  business  to  see 
each  people  in  their  own  peculiar  haunts.  If  at  Vienna, 


A DILEMMA. 


160 


I dine  not  at  the  Wilde  Man,  but  at  the  Fuchs  in  the 
Leopoldstadt.  If  in  Dresden,  I spend  my  evening  in  the 
Grun-Garten,  beyond  the  Elbe.  The  bourgeoisie  alone  of 
any  nation  preserve  traits  marked  enough  for  a stranger’s 
appreciation;  the  higher  classes  are  pretty  much  alike 
everywhere,  and  the  nationality  of  the  peasant  takes  a 
narrow  range,  and  offers  little  to  amuse.” 

“The  count  is  a quick  observer,”  remarked  madame, 
with  a look  of  pleasure  sparkling  in  her  eyes. 

“I  flatter  myself,”  rejoined  he,  “1  seldom  err  in  my 
guesses.  I knew  my  friend  here  tolerably  accurately 
without  an  introduction.” 

There  was  something  so  kind  in  the  tone  he  spoke 
in,  that  I could  have  no  doubt  of  his  desire  to  compli- 
ment me. 

“ Independently,  too,  of  speaking  most  of  the  languages 
of  Europe,  I possess  a kind  of  knack  for  learning  a patois ,” 
continued  he.  “At  this  instant,  I’ll  wager  a cigar  with 
you  that  I ’ll  join  that  little  knot  of  sober  Belgians  yon- 
der, and  by  the  magic  of  a few  words  of  genuine  Brussels 
French,  I ’ll  pass  muster  as  a Boss.” 

The  countess  laughed  heartily  at  the  thought,  and  I 
joined  in  her  mirth  most  readily. 

“I  take  the  wager,”  cried  I, — “and  hope  sincerely  to 
lose  it.” 

“Done,”  said  he,  springing  up  and  putting  on  his  hat, 
while  he  made  a short  circuit  in  the  garden,  and  soon 
afterwards  appeared  at  the  table  with  the  Flemings,  ask- 
ing permission,  as  it  seemed,  to  light  a cigar  from  a lan- 
tern attached  to  the  tree  under  which  they  sat. 

If  we  were  to  judge  from  the  merriment  of  the  little 
group,  his  success  was  perfect,  and  we  soon  saw  him 
seated  amongst  them,  busily  occupied  in  concocting  a 
bowl  of  flaming  ponclie,  of  which  it  was  clear  by  his 
manner  he  had  invited  the  party  to  partake. 

“Now  Gustav  is  in  his  delight,”  said  the  countess,  in  a 
tone  of  almost  pique;  “he  is  a strange  creature,  and  never 
satisfied  if  not  doing  something  other  people  never  think 
of.  In  half  an  hour  he  ’ll  be  back  here,  with  the  whole 
history  of  Mynheer  van  Houdendrochen  and  his  wife  and 


170 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


their  fourteen  ‘ mannikins;  ’ all  their  little  absurdities  and 
prejudices  he  ’ll  catch  up,  and  for  a week  to  come  we  shall 
hear  nothing  but  Flemish  French,  and  the  habitudes  of  the 
Montague  de  la  Cour.” 

For  a few  seconds  I was  vastly  uncomfortable ; a thought 
glanced  across  me  what  if  it  were  for  some  absurd  feature 
in  me,  in  my  manner  or  my  conversation,  that  he  had 
deigned  to  make  my  acquaintance.  Then  came  the  recol- 
lection of  his  generous  proposal,  and  I saw  at  once  that  I 
was  putting  a somewhat  high  price  on  my  originality,  if 
I valued  it  at  five  thousand  francs. 

“What  ails  you?”  said  the  countess,  in  a low  soft  voice, 
as  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  let  them  fall  upon  me  with  a most 
bewitching  expression  of  interest.  “ I fear  you  are  ill,  or 
in  low  spirits.”  I endeavored  to  rally  and  reply,  when 
she  went  on : — 

“We  must  see  you  oftener.  Gustav  is  so  pleasant  and 
so  gay,  he  will  be  of  great  use  to  you.  When  he  really 
takes  a liking,  he  is  delightful;  and  he  has  in  your  case,  I 
assure  you.” 

I knew  not  what  to  say,  nor  how  to  look  my  gratitude 
for  such  a speech,  and  could  only  accomplish  some  few  and 
broken  words  of  thanks. 

“Besides,  you  are  about  to  be  a traveller,”  continued 
she;  “and  who  can  give  you  such  valuable  information  of 
every  country  and  people  as  the  count?  Do  you  intend  to 
make  a long  absence  from  England?” 

“Yes,  at  least  some  years.  I wish  to  visit  the  East.” 

“You’ll  go  into  Poland?”  said  she,  quickly,  without 
noticing  my  reply. 

“Yes,  I trust  so;  Hungary  and  Poland  have  both  great 
interest  for  me.” 

“You  know  that  we  are  Poles,  don’t  you?” 

“Yes.” 

“We  are  both  from  beyond  Varsovie.  Gustav  was  there 
ten  years  ago.  I have  never  seen  my  native  country  since 
I was  a child.” 

At  the  last  words  her  voice  dropped  to  a whisper,  and 
she  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand,  and  seemed  lost  in 
thought.  I did  not  dare  break  in  upon  the  current  of 


A DILEMMA. 


171 


recollections  I saw  were  crowding  upon  her,  and  was 
silent.  She  looked  up  at  length,  and  by  the  faint  light 
of  the  moon,  just  risen,  I saw  that  her  eyes  were  tearful 
and  her  cheeks  still  wet  with  weeping. 

“What,”  said  I to  myself,  “and  has  sorrow  come  even 
here, — here,  where  I imagined  if  ever  the  sunny  path  of 
life  existed,  it  was  to  be  found?” 

“Would  you  like  to  hear  a sad  story?”  said  she,  smiling 
faintly,  with  a look  of  indefinable  sweetness. 

“If  it  were  yours,  it  would  make  my  heart  ache,”  said  I, 
carried  away  by  my  feelings  at  the  instant. 

“I’ll  tell  it  to  you  one  of  these  days,  then:  not  now! 
not  now,  though ! — I could  not  here ; and  there  comes 
Gustav.  How  he  laughs!” 

And  true  enough,  the  merry  sounds  of  his  voice  were 
heard  through  the  garden  as  he  approached ; and  strangely 
too,  they  seemed  to  grate  and  jar  upon  my  ear,  with  a very 
different  impression  from  what  before  they  brought  to  me. 

Our  way  back  to  Brussels  led  again  through  the  forest, 
which  now  was  wrapped  in  the  shade  save  where  the  moon 
came  peeping  down  through  the  leafy  branches,  and  fell  in 
bright  patches  on  the  road  beneath.  The  countess  spoke  a 
little  at  first,  but  gradually  relapsed  into  perfect  silence. 
The  stillness  and  calm  about  seemed  only  the  more  strik- 
ing from  the  hollow  tramp  of  the  horses,  as  they  moved 
along  the  even  turf;  the  air  was  mild  and  sweet,  and 
loaded  with  that  peculiar  fragrance  which  a wood  exhales 
after  nightfall;  and  all  the  influences  of  the  time  and 
place  were  of  that  soothing,  lulling  kind  that  wraps  the 
mind  in  a state  of  dreamy  reverie.  But  one  thought  dwelt 
within  me : it  was  of  her  who  sat  beside  me,  her  head  cast 
down,  and  her  arms  folded.  She  was  unhappy;  some 
secret  sorrow  was  preying  upon  that  fair  bosom,  some 
eating  care  corroding  her  very  heart.  A vague,  shadowy 
suspicion  shot  through  me  that  her  husband  might  have 
treated  her  cruelly  and  ill.  But  why  suspect  this?  Was 
not  everything  I witnessed  the  very  reverse  of  such  a fact? 
What  could  surpass  the  mutual  kindliness  and  good  feeling 
that  I saw  between  them ! And  yet  their  dispositions  were 
not  at  all  alike:  she  seemed  to  hint  as  much.  The  very 


172 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


waywardness  of  his  temperament;  the  incessant  demand 
of  his  spirit  for  change,  excitement,  and  occupation,  — 
how  could  it  harmonize  with  her  gentle  and  more  constant 
nature?  From  such  thoughts  I was  awakened  by  her  say- 
ing, in  a low  faint  voice,  — 

“You  must  forget  what  I said  to-night.  There  are 
moments  when  some  strong  impulse  will  force  the  heart 
to  declare  the  long-buried  thoughts  of  years.  Perhaps 
some  secret  instinct  tells  us  that  we  are  near  to  those 
who  can  sympathize  and  feel  for  us;  perhaps  these  are 
the  overflowings  of  grief,  without  which  the  heart  would 
grow  full  to  bursting.  Whatever  they  be,  they  seem  to 
calm  and  soothe  us,  though  afterwards  we  may  sorrow  for 
having  indulged  in  them.  You  will  forget  it  all,  won’t 
you?  ” 

“I  will  do  my  best,”  said  I,  timidly,  “to  do  all  you  wish; 
but  I cannot  promise  you  what  may  be  out  of  my  power. 
The  few  words  you  spoke  have  never  left  my  mind  since; 
nor  can  I say  when  I shall  cease  to  remember  them.” 

“What  do  you  think,  Duisclika?”  said  the  count,  as  he 
flung  away  the  fragment  of  his  cigar,  and  turned  round  on 
the  box,  — “what  do  you  think  of  an  invitation  to  dinner 
I have  accepted  for  Tuesday  next?” 

“Where,  pray?”  said  she,  with  an  effort  to  seem 
interested. 

“I  am  to  dine  with  my  worthy  friend  Van  Houdicamp, 
Rue  de  Lacken,  No.  28.  A very  high  mark,  let  me  tell 
you;  his  father  was  burgomaster  at  Alost,  and  he  himself 
has  a great  sugar  bakery,  or  salt  raffinerie,  or  something 
equivalent,  at  Scharbeck.” 

“How  can  you  find  any  pleasure  in  such  society, 
Gustav?  ” 

“Pleasure  you  call  it!  — delight  is  the  word.  I shall 
hear  all  the  gossip  of  the  Basse  Ville,  — quite  as  amusing, 
I ’m  certain,  as  of  the  Place  and  the  Boulevards.  Besides, 
there  are  to  be  some  half-dozen  echevins,  with  wives  and 
daughters,  and  we  shall  have  a round  game  for  the  most 
patriarchal  stakes.  I have  also  obtained  permission  to 
bring  a friend;  so  you  see,  Monsieur  O’Leary  — ” 

“I ’m  certain,”  interposed  madame,  “he  has  much  better 
taste  than  to  avail  himself  of  your  offer.” 


A DILEMMA. 


173 


“1  ’ll  bet  my  life  on  it  be  ’ll  not  refuse.” 

“I  say  he  will,”  said  the  lady. 

“1  ’ll  wager  that  pearl  ring  at  Mertan’s  that  if  you  leave 
him  to  himself  he  says  ‘ yes.’  ” 

“Agreed,”  said  madame;  “I  accept  the  bet.  We  Foies 
are  as  great  gamblers  as  yourselves,  you  see,”  added  she, 
turning  to  me.  “Now,  Monsieur,  decide  the  question. 
Will  you  dine  with  Van  Hottentot  on  Tuesday  next  — or 
with  me  ? ” 

The  last  three  words  were  spoken  in  so  low  a tone  as 
made  me  actually  suspect  that  my  imagination  alone  had 
conceived  them. 

“Well,”  cried  the  count,  “what  say  you?” 

“I  pronounce  for  the  — Hotel  de  France,”  said  I,  fearing 
in  what  words  to  accept  the  invitation  of  the  lady. 

“Then  I have  lost  my  bet,”  said  the  count,  laughing; 
“and,  worse  still,  have  found  myself  mistaken  in  my 
opinion.” 

“And  I,”  said  madame,  in  a faint  whisper,  “have  won 
mine,  and  found  my  impressions  more  correct.” 

Nothing  more  occurred  worth  mentioning  on  our  way 
back;  when  we  reached  the  hotel  in  safety,  we  separated 
with  many  promises  to  meet  early  next  day. 

From  that  hour  my  intimacy  took  a form  of  almost 
friendship.  I visited  the  count,  or  the  countess  if  he  was 
out,  every  morning;  chatted  over  the  news  of  the  day; 
made  our  plans  for  the  evening,  either  for  Boibsfort  or 
Lacken,  or  occasionally  the  allee  verte  or  the  theatre,  and 
sometimes  arranged  little  excursions  to  Antwerp,  Lou- 
vain, or  Ghent. 

It  is  indeed  a strange  thing  to  think  of  what  slight 
materials  happiness  is  made  up.  The  nest  that  incloses 
our  greatest  pleasure  is  a thing  of  straws  and  feathers, 
gathered  at  random  or  carried  towards  us  by  the  winds  of 
fortune.  If  you  were  to  ask  me  now  what  I deemed  the 
most  delightful  period  of  my  whole  life,  I don’t  hesitate 
to  say  I should  name  this.  In  the  first  place,  I possessed 
the  great  requisite  of  happiness,  — every  moment  of  my 
whole  day  was  occupied;  each  hour  was  chained  to  its 
fellow  by  some  slight  but  invisible  link;  and  whether  I 


174 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


was  hammering  away  at  my  Polish  grammar,  or  sitting 
beside  the  pianoforte  while  the  countess  sang  some  of  her 
country’s  ballads,  or  listening  to  legends  of  Poland  in  its 
times  of  greatness,  or  galloping  along  at  her  side  through 
the  forest  of  Soignies,  my  mind  was  ever  full;  no  sense  of 
weariness  or  ennui  ever  invaded  me,  while  a consciousness 
of  a change  in  myself  — I knew  not  what  it  was  — sug- 
gested a feeling  of  pleasure  and  delight  I cannot  account 
for  or  convey.  And  this,  I take  it,  — though  speaking  in 
ignorance  and  merely  from  surmise,  — this,  I suspect,  is 
something  like  what  people  in  love  experience,  and  what 
gives  them  the  ecstasy  of  the  passion.  There  is  sufficient 
concentration  in  the  admiration  of  the  loved  object  to  give 
the  mind  a decided  and  firm  purpose,  and  enough  of  change 
in  the  various  devices  to  win  her  praise  to  impart  the  charm 
of  novelty. 

Now,  for  all  this,  my  reader,  fair  or  false  as  she  or  he 
may  be,  must  not  suspect  that  anything  bordering  on  love 
was  concerned  in  the  present  case.  To  begin,  — the  coun- 
tess was  married,  and  I was  brought  up  at  an  excellent 
school  at  Bangor,  where  the  catechism,  Welsh  and  English, 
was  flogged  into  me  until  every  commandment  had  a sepa- 
rate welt  of  its  own  on  my  back.  No;  I had  taken  the 
royal  road  to  happiness.  I was  delighted  without  stopping 
to  know  why,  and  enjoyed  myself  without  ever  thinking  to 
inquire  wherefore.  New  sources  of  information  and  knowl- 
edge were  opened  to  me  by  those  who  possessed  vast  stores 
of  acquirement;  and  I learned  how  the  conversation  of 
gifted  and  accomplished  persons  may  be  made  a great 
agent  in  training  and  forming  the  mind,  if  not  to  the 
higher  walks  of  knowledge,  at  least  to  those  paths  in 
which  the  greater  part  of  life  is  spent,  and  where  it 
imports  each  to  make  the  road  agreeable  to  his  fellows. 
I have  said  to  you  I was  not  in  love  — how  could  I be, 
under  the  circumstances?  — but  still  I own  that  the  regular 
verbs  of  the  Polish  grammar  had  been  but  dry  work,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  certain  irregular  glances  at  my  pretty  mis- 
tress; nor  could  I ever  have  seen  my  way  through  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  declensions  if  the  light  of  her  eyes  had  not  lit 
up  the  page,  and  her  taper  finger  pointed  out  the  place. 


A DILEMMA. 


175 


And  thus  two  months  flew  past,  during  which  she  never 
even  alluded  most  distantly  to  our  conversation  in  the  gar- 
den at  Boitsfort,  nor  did  I learn  any  one  particular  more 
of  my  friends  than  on  the  first  day  of  our  meeting.  Mean- 
while, all  ideas  of  travelling  had  completely  left  me;  and 
although  I had  now  abundant  resources  in  my  banker’s 
hands  for  all  the  purposes  of  the  road,  1 never  once 
dreamed  of  leaving  a place  where  I felt  so  thoroughly 
happy. 

Such,  then,  was  our  life,  when  I began  to  remark  a 
slight  change  in  the  count’s  manner, — an  appearance  of 
gloom  and  pre-occupation,  which  seemed  to  increase  each 
day,  and  against  which  he  strove,  but  in  vain.  It  was 
clear  something  had  gone  wrong  with  him ; but  I did  not 
dare  to  allude  to,  much  less  ask  him  on  the  subject.  At 
last,  one  evening,  just  as  I was  preparing  for  bed,  he 
entered  my  dressing-room,  and  closing  the  door  cautiously 
behind  him,  sat  down.  I saw  that  he  was  dressed  as  if 
for  the  road,  and  looking  paler  and  more  agitated  than 
usual. 

“O’Leary,”  said  he,  in  a tremulous  voice,  “I  am  come 
to  place  in  your  hands  the  highest  trust  a man  can  repose 
in  another.  Am  I certain  of  your  friendship?  ” I shook 
his  hand  in  silence,  and  he  went  on.  “I  must  leave 
Brussels  to-night,  secretly.  A political  affair,  in  which 
the  peace  of  Europe  is  involved,  has  just  come  to  my 
knowledge;  the  government  here  will  do  their  best  to 
detain  me;  orders  are  already  given  to  delay  me  at  the 
frontier,  perhaps  send  me  back  to  the  capital;  in  conse- 
quence, I must  cross  the  boundary  on  horseback,  and  reach 
Aix-la-Chapelle  by  to-morrow  evening.  Of  course,  the 
countess  cannot  accompany  me.”  He  paused  for  a second. 
“You  must  be  her  protector.  A hundred  rumors  will  be 
afloat  the  moment  they  find  I have  escaped,  and  as  many 
reasons  for  my  departure  announced  in  the  papers.  How- 
ever, I ’m  content  if  they  amuse  the  public  and  occupy  the 
police;  and  meanwhile  I shall  obtain  time  to  pass  through 
Prussia  unmolested.  Before  I reach  St.  Petersburg,  the 
countess  will  receive  letters  from  me,  and  know  where  to 
proceed  to;  and  I count  on  your  friendship  to  remain  here 


176 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


until  that  time,  — a fortnight,  three  weeks  at  farthest.  If 
money  is  any  object  to  you  — ” 

“.Not  in  the  least;  I have  far  more  than  I want.” 

“ Well,  then,  may  I conclude  that  you  consent?” 

“Of  course  you  may,”  said  I,  overpowered  by  a rush  of 
sensations  I must  leave  to  my  reader  to  feel,  if  it  has  ever 
been  his  lot  to  be  placed  in  such  circumstances,  or  to 
imagine  if  he  has  not. 

“The  countess,”  I said,  “is  of  course  aware  — ” 

“Of  everything,”  interrupted  he,  “and  bears  it  all  admi- 
rably. Much,  however,  is  attributable  to  the  arrangement 
with  you,  which  I promised  her  was  completed  even  before 
I asked  your  consent,  — such  was  my  confidence  in  your 
friendship.” 

“You  have  not  deceived  yourself,”  was  my  reply,  while 
I puzzled  my  brain  to  think  how  I could  repay  such  proofs 
of  his  trust.  “Is  there  then,  anything  more,”  said  I, — 
“can  you  think  of  nothing  else  in  which  I may  be  of 
service?  ” 

“Nothing,  dear  friend,  nothing,”  said  he.  “Probably 
we  shall  meet  at  St.  Petersburg.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  I;  “that  is  my  firm  intention.” 

“That ’s  all  I could  wish  for,”  rejoined  he.  “The  grand 
duke  will  be  delighted  to  acknowledge  the  assistance  your 
friendship  has  rendered  us,  and  Potoski’s  house  will  be 
your  own.”  So  saying,  he  embraced  me  most  affection- 
ately, and  departed;  while  I sat  to  muse  over  the  singu- 
larity of  my  position,  and  to  wonder  if  any  other  man  was 
ever  similarly  situated. 

When  I proceeded  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  countess 
the  next  morning,  I prepared  myself  to  witness  a state  of 
great  sorrow  and  depression.  How  pleasantly  was  I dis- 
appointed at  finding  her  gay,  — perhaps  gayer  than  ever,  — 
and  evidently  enjoying  the  success  of  the  count’s  scheme! 

“Gustav  is  at  St.  Tron  by  this,”  said  she,  looking  at  the 
map;  “he’ll  reach  Liege  two  hours  before  the  post;  fresh 
horses  will  then  bring  him  rapidly  to  Pattiste.  Oh,  here 
are  the  papers;  let  us  see  the  way  his  departure  is  an- 
nounced.” She  turned  over  one  journal  after  another 
without  finding  the  wished-for  paragraph,  until  at  last, 


A DILEMMA. 


177 


in  the  corner  of  the  “ Handelsblad,”  she  came  upon  the 
following:  — 

“ Yesterday  morning  an  express  reached  the  minister  for  the  home 
affairs  that  the  celebrated  escroc,  the  Chevalier  Duguet,  whose 
famous  forgery  on  the  Neapolitan  bank  may  be  in  the  memory  of 
our  readers,  was  actually  practising  his  art  under  a feigned  name 
in  Brussels,  where,  having  obtained  his  entree  among  some  respectable 
families  of  the  lower  town,  he  has  succeeded  in  obtaining  large  sums 
of  money  under  various  pretences.  His  skill  at  play  is,  they  say, 
the  least  of  his  many  accomplishments.” 

She  threw  down  the  paper  in  a fit  of  laughter  at  these 
words,  and  called  out,  “Is  it  not  too  absurd?  That’s 
Gustav’s  doing;  anything  for  a quiz,  no  matter  what. 
He  once  got  himself  and  Prince  Carl  of  Prussia  brought 
up  before  the  police  for  hooting  the  king.” 

“But  Duguet,”  said  I, — “what  has  he  to  do  with 
Duguet?  ” 

“Don’t  you  see  that’s  a feigned  name,”  replied  she,  — 
“assumed  by  him  as  if  he  had  half  a dozen  such?  Read 
on,  and  you  ’ll  learn  it  all.” 

I took  the  paper,  and  continued  where  she  ceased 
reading : — 

“ This  Duguet  is  then,  it  would  appear,  identical  with  a very  well- 
known  Polish  Count  Czaroviski,  who  with  his  lady  had  been  passing 
some  weeks  at  the  Hotel  de  France.  The  police  have,  however, 
received  his  signalement,  and  are  on  his  track.” 

“But  why,  in  Heaven’s  name,  should  he  spread  such  an 
odious  calumny  on  himself?”  said  I. 

“Dear  me,  how  very  simple  you  are!  I thought  he  had 
told  you  all.  As  a mere  escroc,  money  will  always  bribe 
the  authorities  to  let  him  pass;  as  a political  offender,  and 
as  such  the  importance  of  his  mission  would  proclaim  him, 
nothing  would  induce  the  officials  to  further  his  escape,  — 
their  own  heads  would  pay  for  it.  Once  over  the  frontier, 
the  ruse  will  be  discovered,  the  editors  obliged  to  eat  their 
words  and  be  laughed  at,  and  Gustav  receive  the  Black 
Eagle  for  his  services.  But  see,  here ’s  another.' 

12 


178 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ Among  the  victims  at  play  of  the  well-known  Chevalier  Ituguet, 
or,  as  he  is  better  known  here,  the  Count  Czaroviski,  is  a simple 
Englishman,  resident  at  the  Hotel  de  France,  and  from  whom  it 
seems  he  has  won  every  louis-d  or  he  possessed  in  the  world.  Ibis 
miserable  dupe,  whose  name  is  O Learie,  or  O’Leary  ’ 

At  th°se  words  the  countess  leaned  back  on  the  sofa, 
and  laughed  immoderately. 

“Have  you,  then,  suffered  so  deeply?”  said  she,  wiping 
her  eyes;  “has  Gustav  really  won  all  your  louis-d’ors? ” 

“This  is  too  bad,  far  too  bad,”  said  I;  “and  I really 
cannot  comprehend  how  any  intrigue  could  induce  him  so 
far  to  asperse  his  character  in  this  manner.  I,  for  my 
part,  can  be  no  party  to  it.” 

As  I said  this,  my  eyes  fell  on  the  latter  part  of  the 
paragraph,  which  ran  thus : — 

“ This  poor  boy  — for  we  understand  he  is  no  more  — has  been  lured 
to  his  ruin  by  the  beauty  and  attraction  of  Madame  Czaroviski.” 

I crushed  the  odious  paper  without  venturing  to  see 
more,  and  tore  it  in  a thousand  pieces;  and,  not  waiting 
an  instant,  hurried  to  my  room  and  seized  a pen.  Burn- 
ing with  indignation  and  rage,  1 wrote  a short  note  to  the 
editor,  in  which  I not  only  contradicted  the  assertions  of 
his  correspondent,  but  offered  a reward  of  a hundred  louis 
for  the  name  of  the  person  who  had  invented  the  infamous 
calumny. 

It  was  some  time  before  I recovered  my  composure  suffi- 
ciently to  return  to  the  countess,  whom  I now  found  greatly 
excited  and  alarmed  at  my  sudden  departure.  She  insisted 
with  such  eagerness  on  knowing  what  I had  done  that  I 
was  obliged  to  confess  everything,  and  show  her  a copy  of 
the  letter  I had  already  despatched  to  the  editor.  She 
grew  pale  as  death  as  she  read  it,  flushed  deeply,  and  then 
became  pale  again,  while  she  sank  faint  and  sick  into  a 
chair. 

“This  is  very  noble  conduct  of  yours,”  said  she,  in  a low 
hollow  voice;  “but  I see  where  it  will  lead  to.  Czaroviski 
has  great  and  powerful  enemies;  they  will  become  yours 
also.” 


A DILEMMA. 


179 


“Be  it  so,”  said  I,  interrupting  her.  “They  have  little 
power  to  injure  me;  let  them  do  their  worst.” 

“You  forget,  apparently,”  said  she,  with  a most  bewitch- 
ing smile,  “that  you  are  no  longer  free  to  dispose  of  your 
liberty;  that  as  my  protector  you  cannot  brave  dangers  and 
difficulties  which  may  terminate  in  a prison.” 

“What,  then,  would  you  have  me  do?” 

“Hasten  to  the  editor  at  once;  erase  so  much  of  your 
letter  as  refers  to  the  proposed  reward.  The  information 
could  be  of  no  service  to  you  if  obtained,  — some  miserable , 
perhaps  some  spy  of  the  police,  the  slanderer.  What  could 
you  gain  by  his  punishment,  save  publicity?  A mere  de- 
nial of  the  facts  alleged  is  quite  sufficient;  and  even  that,” 
continued  she,  smiling,  “how  superfluous  is  it  after  all! 
A week,  — ten  days  at  farthest,  — and  the  whole  mystery 
is  unveiled.  Not  that  I would  dissuade  you  from  a course 
I see  your  heart  is  bent  upon,  and  which,  after  all,  is  a 
purely  personal  consideration.” 

“Yes,”  said  I,  after  a pause,  “I’ll  take  your  advice; 
the  letter  shall  be  inserted  without  the  concluding 
paragraph.” 

The  calumnious  reports  on  the  count  prevented  madame 
dining  that  day  at  the  table  d’hote;  ana  I remarked,  as  I 
took  my  place  at  table,  a certain  air  of  constraint  and 
reserve  among  the  guests,  as  though  my  presence  had 
interdicted  the  discussion  of  a topic  which  occupied  all 
Brussels.  Dinner  over,  I walked  into  the  park  to  meditate 
on  the  course  I should  pursue  under  present  circumstances, 
and  deliberate  with  myself  how  far  the  habits  of  my  former 
intimacy  with  the  countess  might  or  might  not  be  admissi- 
ble during  her  husband’s  absence.  The  question  was  solved 
for  me  sooner  than  I anticipated,  for  a waiter  overtook  me 
with  a short  note,  written  with  a pencil;  it  ran  thus:  — 

They  play  the  Zauberflotte  to-night  at  the  Opera.  I shall  go  at 
eight:  perhaps  you  would  like  a seat  in  the  carriage. 

Duischka. 

Whatever  doubts  I might  have  conceived  about  my  con- 
duct, the  manner  of  the  countess  at  once  dispelled  them. 
A tone  of  perfect  ease,  and  almost  sisterly  confidence, 


180 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


marked  her  whole  bearing;  and  while  I felt  delighted 
and  fascinated  by  the  freedom  of  our  intercourse,  I could 
not  help  thinking  how  impossible  such  a line  of  acting 
would  have  been  in  my  own  more  rigid  country,  and  to 
what  cruel  calumnies  and  aspersions  it  would  have  sub- 
jected her.  “Truly,”  thought  I,  “if  they  manage  these 
things  — as  Sterne  says  they  do  — £ better  in  Prance,  ’ they 
also  far  excel  in  them  in  Poland.”  And  so  my  Polish 
grammar  and  the  canzonettes  and  the  drives  to  Boitsfort  all 
went  on  as  usual,  and  my  dream  of  happiness,  interrupted 
for  a moment,  flowed  on  again  in  its  former  channel  with 
increased  force. 

A fortnight  had  now  elapsed  without  any  letter  from  the 
count,  save  a few  hurried  lines  written  from  Magdeburg; 
and  I remarked  that  the  countess  betrayed  at  times  a 
degree  of  anxiety  and  agitation  I had  not  observed  in  her 
before.  At  last  the  secret  cause  came  out.  We  were  sit- 
ting together  in  the  park,  eating  ice  after  dinner,  when  she 
suddenly  rose  and  prepared  to  leave  the  place. 

“Has  anything  happened  to  annoy  you?”  said  I,  hur- 
riedly. “Why  are  you  going?” 

“I  can  bear  it  no  longer!”  cried  she,  as  she  drew  her 
veil  down  and  hastened  forward,  and,  without  speaking 
another  word,  continued  her  way  towards  the  hotel.  On 
reaching  her  apartments,  she  burst  into  a torrent  of  tears, 
and  sobbed  most  violently. 

“What  is  it?”  said  I,  having  followed  her,  and  mad- 
dened by  the  sight  of  such  sorrow.  “For  Heaven’s  sake 
tell  me ! Has  any  one  dared  — ” 

“No,  no,”  replied  she,  wiping  the  tears  away  with  her 
handkerchief,  “nothing  of  the  kind.  It  is  the  state  of 
doubt,  of  trying,  harassing  uncertainty  I am  reduced  to 
here,  which  is  breaking  my  heart.  Don’t  you  see  that 
whenever  I appear  in  public,  by  the  air  of  insufferable 
impudence  of  the  men,  and  the  still  more  insulting  looks 
of  the  women,  how  they  dare  to  think  of  me?  I have 
borne  it  as  well  as  I was  able  hitherto;  I can  do  so  no 
longer.” 

“What!”  cried  I,  impetuously,  “and  shall  one  dare 
to  — ” 


A DILEMMA. 


181 


“The  world  will  always  dare  what  may  be  dared  in 
safety,”  interrupted  she,  laying  her  hand  on  my  arm. 
“They  know  that  you  could  not  make  a quarrel  on  my 
account  without  compromising  my  honor;  and  such  an 
occasion  to  trample  on  a poor  weak  woman  could  not  be 
lost.  Well,  well;  Gustav  may  write  to-morrow  or  next 
day.  A little  more  patience;  and  it  is  the  only  cure 
for  these  evils.” 

There  was  a tone  of  angelic  sweetness  in  her  voice  as 
she  spoke  these  words  of  resignation,  and  never  did  she 
seem  more  lovely  in  my  eyes. 

“Now,  then,  as  I shall  not  go  to  the  opera,  what  shall 
we  do  to  pass  the  time?  You  are  tired  — I know  you  are 
— of  Polish  melodies  and  German  ballads.  Well,  well; 
then  I am.  I have  told  you  that  we  Poles  are  as  great 
gamblers  as  yourselves.  What  say  you  to  a game  at 
picquet?  ” 

“By  all  means,”  said  I,  delighted  at  the  prospect  of 
anything  to  while  away  the  hours  of  her  sorrowing. 

“Then  you  must  teach  me,”  rejoined  she,  laughing,  “for 
I don’t  know  it.  I ’m  wretchedly  stupid  about  all  these 
things,  and  never  could  learn  any  game  but  ecarte.” 

“Then  ecarte  be  it,”  said  I;  and  in  a few  minutes  more 
I had  arranged  the  little  table,  and  down  we  sat  to  our 
party. 

“There,”  said  she,  laughing,  and  throwing  her  purse  on 
the  table,  “ I can  only  afford  to  lose  so  much ; but  you  may 
win  all  that  if  you’re  fortunate.”  A rouleau  of  louis 
escaped  at  the  instant,  and  fell  about  the  table. 

“Agreed,”  said  I,  indulging  the  quiz.  “I  am  an  in- 
veterate gambler,  and  always  play  high.  What  shall  be 
our  stakes?” 

“Fifty,  I suppose,”  said  she,  still  laughing:  “we  can 
increase  our  bets  aftei-wards.” 

After  some  little  badinage,  we  each  placed  a double  louis- 
d’or  on  the  board,  and  began.  For  a while  the  game 
employed  our  attention;  but  gradually  we  fell  into  con- 
versation, the  cards  gradually  dropped  listlessly  from  our 
hands,  the  tricks  remained  unclaimed,  and  we  could  never 
decide  whose  turn  it  was  to  deal. 


182 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“This  wearies  you,  I see,”  said  she;  “perhaps  you’d 
like  to  stop?” 

“By  no  means,”  said  I.  “I  like  the  game,  of  all 
things.”  This  I said  rather  because  I was  a considera- 
ble winner  at  the  time  than  from  any  other  motive;  and  so 
we  played  on  till  eleven  o’clock,  at  which  hour  I usually 
took  my  leave,  and  by  which  time  my  gains  had  increased 
to  some  seventy  louis. 

“Is  it  not  fortunate,”  said  she,  laughing,  “that  eleven 
has  struck?  You’d  certainly  have  won  all  my  gold;  and 
now  you  must  leave  off  in  the  midst  of  your  good  fortune, 
— and  so,  bonsoir , et  a revanche .” 

Each  evening  now  saw  our  little  party  at  ecarte  usurp 
the  place  of  the  drive  and  the  opera;  and  though  our  suc- 
cesses ran  occasionally  high  at  either  side,  yet  on  the  whole 
neither  was  a winner;  and  we  jested  about  the  impartiality 
with  which  fortune  treated  us  both.  At  last,  one  evening, 
eleven  struck  when  I was  a greater  winner  than  ever,  and 
I thought  I saw  a little  pique  in  her  manner  at  the  enor- 
mous run  of  luck  I had  experienced  throughout. 

“Come,”  said  she,  laughing,  “you  have  really  wounded 
a national  feeling  in  a Polish  heart,  — you  have  asserted  a 
superiority  at  a game  of  skill.  I must  beat  you;”  and 
with  that  she  placed  five  louis  on  the  table.  She  lost. 
Again  the  same  stake  followed,  and  again  the  same  for- 
tune, notwithstanding  that  I did  all  in  my  power  to  avoid 
winning,  — of  course  without  exciting  her  suspicions. 

“And  so,”  said  she,  as  she  dealt  the  cards,  “Ireland  is 
really  so  picturesque  as  you  say?” 

“Beautifully  so,”  replied  I,  as,  warmed  up  by  a favorite 
topic,  I launched  forth  into  a description  of  the  mountain 
scenery  of  the  south  and  west.  The  rich  emerald  green  of 
the  valleys,  the  wild  fantastic  character  of  the  mountain, 
the  changeful  skies,  were  all  brought  up  to  make  a picture 
for  her  admiration;  and  she  did  indeed  seem  to  enjoy  it 
with  the  highest  zest,  only  interrupting  me  in  my  harangue 
by  the  words,  “ -Te  marque  le  Roi,”  to  which  circumstances 
she  directed  my  attention  by  a sweet  smile,  and  a gesture 
of  her  taper  finger.  And  thus  hour  followed  hour;  and 
already  the  gray  dawn  was  breaking,  while  I was  just 


A DILEMMA. 


183 


beginning  an  eloquent  description  of  the  Killeries,  and 
the  countess  suddenly  looking  at  her  watch,  cried  out,  — 

“How  very  dreadful!  only  think  of  three  o’clock!  ” 

True  enough,  it  was  that  hour;  and  I started  up  to  say 
good-night,  shocked  at  myself  for  so  far  transgressing,  and 
yet  secretly  flattered  that  my  conversational  powers  had 
made  time  slip  by  uncounted. 

“And  the  Irish  are  really  so  clever,  so  gifted  as  you 
say?”  said  she,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  wish  me 
good-night. 

“The  most  astonishing  quickness  is  theirs,”  replied  I, 
half-reluctant  to  depart;  “nothing  can  equal  their  intelli- 
gence and  shrewdness.” 

“ How  charming ! i>orcs0t>,”said  she, and  I closed  the  door. 

What  dreams  were  mine  that  night!  What  delightful 
visions  of  lake  scenery  and  Polish  countesses,  of  mountain 
gorges  and  blue  eyes,  of  deep  ravines  and  lovely  forms ! I 
thought  we  were  sailing  up  Lough  Corrib;  the  moon  was 
up,  spangling  and  flecking  the  rippling  lake;  the  night 
was  still  and  calm,  not  a sound  save  the  cuckoo  being 
heard  to  break  the  silence.  As  I listened  I started,  for  I 
thought,  instead  of  her  wonted  note,  her  cry  was  ever,  “ Je 
marque  le  Roi.” 

Morning  came  at  last;  but  I could  not  a^yake,  and  en- 
deavored to  sink  back  into  the  pleasant  realm  of  dreams, 
from  which  daylight  disturbed  me.  It  was  noon  when  at 
length  I succeeded  in  awaking  perfectly. 

“A  note  for  monsieur,”  said  a waiter,  as  he  stood  beside 
the  bed. 

I took  it  eagerly.  It  was  from  the  countess;  its  con- 
tents were  these : — 

My  dear  Sir, — A hasty  summons  from  Count  Czaroviski  has 
compelled  me  to  leave  Brussels  without  wishing  you  good-by,  and 
thanking  you  for  all  your  polite  attentions.  Pray  accept  these  hur- 
ried acknowledgments,  and  my  regret  that  circumstances  do  not 
enable  me  to  visit  Ireland,  in  which,  from  your  description,  I must 
ever  feel  the  deepest  interest. 

The  count  sends  his  most  affectionate  greetings. 

Yours  ever  sincerely, 

Putschka  Czaroviski  nee  Gutzlaff. 


184 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“And  is  she  gone?”  said  I,  starting  up  in  a state  of 
frenzy. 

“Yes,  sir;  she  started  at  ten  o’clock.” 

“By  what  road?”  cried  I,  determined  to  follow  her  on 
the  instant. 

“Louvain  was  the  first  stage.” 

In  an  instant  I was  up,  and  dressed;  in  ten  minutes 
more  I was  rattling  over  the  stones  to  my  banker’s. 

“ I want  three  hundred  napoleons  at  once,  ” said  I to  the 
clerk. 

“Examine  Mr.  O’Leary’s  account,”  was  the  dry  reply  of 
the  functionary. 

“Overdrawn  by  fifteen  hundred  francs,”  said  the  other. 

“Overdrawn?  Impossible!”  cried  I,  thunderstruck. 
“I  had  a credit  for  six  hundred  pounds.” 

“Which  you  drew  out  by  cheque  this  morning,”  said 
the  clerk.  “Is  not  that  your  handwriting?” 

“It  is,”  said  I,  faintly,  as  I recognized  my  own  scrawl, 
dated  the  evening  before. 

I had  lost  above  seven  hundred,  and  had  not  a sou  left 
to  pay  post  horses. 

I sauntered  back  sadly  to  the  France,  a sadder  man  than 
ever  in  my  life  before.  A thousand  tormenting  thoughts 
were  in  my  brain;  and  a feeling  of  contempt  for  myself, 
somehow,  occupied  a very  prominent  place.  Well,  well; 
it ’s  all  past  and  gone  now,  and  I must  not  awaken  buried 
griefs. 

I never  saw  the  count  and  countess  again ; and  though  I 
have  since  that  been  in  St.  Petersburg,  the  grand  duke 
seems  to  have  forgotten  my  services,  and  a very  pompous- 
looking  porter  in  a bearskin  did  not  look  exactly  the  kind 
of  person  to  whom  I should  wish  to  communicate  my 
impression  about  “Count  Potoski’s  house  being  my  own.” 


CHAPTER  XI. 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 

T am  half  sorry  already  that  I have  told  that  little  story 
of  myself.  Somehow  the  recollection  is  painful.  And 
now  1 would  rather  hasten  away  from  Brussels,  and  wander 
on  to  other  scenes;  and  yet  there  are  many  things  I fain 
would  speak  of,  and  some  people,  too,  worth  a mention  in 
passing.  I should  like  to  have  taken  you  a moonlight 
walk  through  the  Grande  Place,  and  after  tracing  against 
the  clear  sky  the  delicate  outline  of  the  beautiful  spire, 
whose  gilded  point  seemed  stretching  away  towards  the 
bright  star  above  it,  to  have  shown  you  the  interior  of  a 
Flemish  club  in  the  old  Salle  de  Loyaute.  Primitive, 
quaint  fellows  they  are,  these  Flemings;  consequential, 
sedate,  self-satisfied,  simple  creatures;  credulous  to  any 
extent  of  their  own  importance,  but  kindly  withal;  not 
hospitable  themselves,  but  admirers  of  the  virtue  in 
others;  easily  pleased,  when  the  amusement  costs  little; 
and,  in  a word,  a people  admirably  adapted  by  nature  to 
become  a kind  of  territorial  coinage  alternately  paid  over 
by  one  great  State  to  another,  as  the  balance  of  Europe 
inclines  to  this  side  or  that;  with  industry  enough  always 
to  be  worth  robbing,  and  with  a territory  perfectly  suitable 
to  pitched  battles,  — two  admirable  reasons  for  Belgium 
being  a species  of  Hounslow  Heath  or  Wormwood  Scrubs, 
as  the  nations  of  the  Continent  feel  disposed  for  theft  or 
fighting.  It  was  a cruel  joke,  however,  to  make  them  into 
a nation.  One  gets  tired  of  laughing  at  them  at  last;  and 
even  Sancho’s  Island  of  Barataria  had  become  a nuisance, 
were  it  long-lived. 

Well,  I must  hasten  away  now.  I can’t  go  back  to  the 
France  yet  awhile,  so  I ’ll  even  take  to  the  road.  But 
what  road?  that’s  the  question.  What  a luxury  it  would 
be,  to  be  sure,  to  have  some  person  of  exquisite  taste, 


186 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


who  could  order  dinner  every  day  in  the  year,  arranging 
the  carte  by  a physiognomical  study  of  your  countenance, 
and  plan  out  your  route  by  some  innate  sense  of  your 
desires.  Arthur  O’Leary  has  none  such,  however;  his 
whole  philosophy  in  life  being  to  throw  the  reins  on  the 
hack  Fortune’s  neck,  and  let  the  jade  take  her  own  way. 
Not  that  he  has  had  any  reason  to  regret  his  mode  of 
travel.  No:  his  nag  has  carried  him  pleasantly  on  through 
life,  now  cantering  softly  over  the  even  turf,  now  picking 
her  way  more  cautiously  among  bad  ground  and  broken 
pebbles;  and  if  here  and  there  an  occasional  side  leap  or 
a start  has  put  him  out  of  saddle,  it  has  scarcely  put  him 
out  of  temper;  for  one  great  secret  has  he  at  least  learned, 
— and,  after  all,  it’s  one  worth  remembering,  — very  few 
of  the  happiest  events  and  pleasantest  circumstances  in 
our  lives  have  not  their  origin  in  some  incident,  which,  had 
we  been  able,  we  had  prevented  happening.  So  then, 
while  taking  your  mare  “ Chance  ” over  a stiff  country,  be 
advised  by  me:  give  her  plenty  of  head,  sit  close,  and 
when  you  come  to  a “rasper,”  let  her  take  her  own  way 
over  it.  So  convinced  am  I of  the  truth  of  this  axiom, 
that  I should  not  die  easy  if  I had  not  told  it.  And  now, 
if  anything  should  prevent  these  Fragments  being  printed, 
I leave  a clause  in  my  will  to  provide  for  three  O’Leary 
treatises,  to  establish  this  fact  being  written,  for  which  my 
executors  are  empowered  to  pay  five  pounds  sterling  for 
each.  Why,  were  it  not  for  this,  I had  been  married,  say 
at  the  least  some  fourteen  times,  in  various  quarters  of  the 
globe,  and  might  have  had  a family  of  children,  black  and 
white,  sufficient  to  make  a set  of  chessmen  among  them. 
There ’s  no  saying  what  might  have  happened  to  me.  It 
would  seem  like  boasting,  if  I said  that  the  Emperor  of 
Austria  had  some  notions  of  getting  rid  of  Metternich 
to  give  me  the  “Foreign  Affairs,”  and  that  I narrowly 
escaped  once  commanding  the  Russian  fleet  in  the  Baltic. 
But  of  these,  at  another  time.  I only  wish  to  keep  the 
principle  at  present  in  view,  that  Fortune  will  always  do 
better  for  us  than  we  could  do  for  ourselves;  but  to  this 
end  there  must  be  no  tampering  or  meddling  on  our  part. 
The  goddess  is  not  a West-End  physician,  who,  provided 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


187 


you  are  ever  prepared  with  your  fee,  blandly  permits  you 
all  the  little  excesses  you  are  bent  on.  No:  she  is  of  the 
Abernethy  school,  somewhat  rough  occasionally,  but  always 
honest;  never  suffering  any  interference  from  the  patient, 
but  exacting  implicit  faith  and  perfect  obedience.  As  for 
me,  I follow  the  regimen  prescribed  for  me,  without  a 
thought  of  opposition;  and  wherever  I find  myself  in  this 
world,  be  it  China  or  the  Caucasus,  Ghuznee,  Genoa,  or 
Glasnevin,  I feel  for  the  time  that ’s  my  fitting  place,  and 
endeavor  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

The  pedestrian  alone,  of  all  travellers,  is  thus  taken  by 
the  hand  by  Fortune.  Your  extra-post,  with  a courier  on 
the  box,  interferes  sadly  with  the  current  of  all  those  little 
incidents  of  the  road  which  are  ever  happening  to  him  who 
takes  to  the  “by-ways”  of  the  world.  The  odds  are  about 
one  hundred  to  one  against  you  that,  when  seated  in  your 
carriage,  the  postilion  in  his  saddle  and  the  fat  courier 
outside,  the  words  en  route  being  given,  you  arrive  at 
your  destination  that  evening,  without  any  accident  or 
adventure  whatever  of  more  consequence  than  a lost  shoe 
from  the  near  leader,  a snapped  spring,  or  a heartburn 
from  the  glass  of  bad  brandy  you  took  at  the  third  stage. 
A blue  post  with  white  stripes  on  it  tells  you  that  you 
are  in  Prussia;  or  a yellow-and-brown  pole,  that  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Nassau  is  giving  you  the  hospitality  of  his  terri- 
tory — save  which  you  have  no  other  evidence  of  change. 
The  village  inn,  and  its  little  circle  of  celebrities,  opens 
not  to  you  those  peeps  at  humble  life  so  indicative  of 
national  character:  you  stop  not  at  the  wayside  chapel 
in  the  sultry  heat  of  noon  to  charm  away  your  peaceful 
hour  of  reflection;  now  turning  from  the  lovely  Madonna 
above  the  altar  to  the  peasant  girl  who  kneels  in  suppli- 
cation beneath,  now  contrasting  the  stern  features  of  some 
painted  martyr  with  the  wrinkled  front  and  weather-beaten 
traits  of  some  white-haired  beggar,  now  musing  over  the 
quiet  existence  of  the  humble  figure  whose  heavy  sabots 
wake  the  echoes  of  the  vaulted  aisle,  or  watching,  per- 
haps, that  venerable  priest  who  glides  about  before  the 
altar  in  his  white  robes,  and  disappears  by  some  unseen 
door,  seeming  like  a phantom  of  the  place.  The  little 


188 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


relics  of  village  devotion,  so  touching  in  their  poverty, 
awake  no  thought  within  you  of  the  pious  souls  in  yonder 
hamlet.  The  old  cure  himself,  as  he  jogs  along  on  his 
ambling  pony,  suggests  nothing  save  the  figure  of  age  and 
decrepitude.  You  have  not  seen  the  sparkling  eyes  and 
lushed  cheeks  of  his  humble  flock,  who  salute  him  as  he 
)asses,  nor  gazed  upon  that  broad  high  forehead,  where 
benevolence  and  charity  have  fixed  their  dwelling.  The 
foot-sore  veteran  or  the  young  conscript  have  not  been  your 
fellow-travellers;  mayhap  you  would  despise  them.  Their 
joys  and  sorrows,  their  hopes,  their  fears,  their  wishes,  all 
move  in  a humble  sphere,  and  little  suit  the  ears  of  those 
whose  fortune  is  a higher  one. 

Not  that  the  staff  and  the  knapsack  are  the  passports  to 
only  such  as  these.  My  experience  would  tell  very  differ- 
ently. With  some  of  the  most  remarkable  men  I ever  met, 
my  acquaintance  grew  on  the  road;  some  of  the  vt  *y 
pleasantest  moments  of  my  life  had  their  origin  in  the 
chances  of  the  wayside;  the  little  glimpses  I have  ever 
enjoyed  of  national  character  have  been  owing  to  these 
same  accidents;  and  I have  often  hailed  some  casual  inter- 
ruption to  my  route,  some  passing  obstacle  to  my  journey, 
as  the  source  of  an  adventure  which  might  afford  me  the 
greatest  pleasure.  I date  this  feeling  to  a good  number  of 
years  back,  and  in  a great  measure  to  an  incident  that 
occurred  to  me  when  first  wandering  in  this  country.  It 
is  scarcely  a story,  but  as  illustrating  my  position  I will 
tell  it. 

Soon  after  my  Polish  adventure,  — I scarcely  like  to  be 
more  particular  in  my  designation  of  it,  — I received  a 
small  remittance  from  England,  and  started  for  Namur. 
My  uncle  Toby’s  recollections  had  been  an  inducement  for 
the  journey,  had  I not  the  more  pleasant  one  in  my  wish 
to  see  the  Meuse,  of  whose  scenery  I had  already  heard  so 
much. 

The  season  was  a delightful  one, — the  beginning  of 
autumn;  and  truly  the  country  far  surpassed  all  my  anti- 
cipations. The  road  to  Dinant  led  along  by  the  river,  the 
clear  stream  rippling  at  one  side;  at  the  other,  the  mas- 
sive granite  rocks,  rising  to  several  hundred  feet,  frowned 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


189 


above  you;  some  gnarled  oak  or  hardy  ash,  clung  to  the 
steep  cliffs,  and  hung  their  drooping  leaves  above  your 
head.  On  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river,  meadows  of 
emerald  green,  intersected  with  ash  rows  and  tall  poplars, 
stretched  away  to  the  background  of  dense  forest  that 
bounded  the  view  to  the  very  horizon.  Here  and  there 
a little  farm-house,  framed  in  wood  and  painted  in  many 
a gaudy  color,  would  peep  from  the  little  inclosure  of  vines 
and  plum-trees;  more  rarely  still,  the  pointed  roof  and 
turreted  gable  of  a venerable  chateau  would  rise  above  the 
trees. 

How  often  did  1 stop  to  gaze  on  these  quaint  old  edifices, 
with  their  balustrades  and  terraces,  on  which  a solitary 
peacock  walked  proudly  to  and  fro,  — the  only  sound  that 
stirred  being  the  hissing  plash  of  the  jet  d’eau,  whose 
sparkling  drops  came  pattering  on  the  broad  water  lilies. 
And  as  I looked,  I wondered  within  myself  what  kind  of 
life  they  led  who  dwelt  there.  The  windows  were  open 
to  the  ground,  bouquets  of  rich  flowers  stood  on  the 
little  tables.  These  were  all  signs  of  habitation,  yet  no 
one  moved  about,  no  stir  or  bustle  denoted  that  there  were 
dwellers  within.  How  different  from  the  country  life  of 
our  great  houses  in  England,  with  trains  of  servants  and 
equipages  hurrying  hither  and  thither, — all  the  wealth 
and  magnificence  of  the  great  capital  transported  to  some 
far-off  county,  that  ennui  and  fastidiousness,  fatigue,  and 
lassitude,  should  lose  none  of  their  habitual  aids!  Well, 
for  my  part,  the  life  among  green  trees  and  flowers,  where 
the  thrush  sings,  and  the  bee  goes  humming  by,  can 
scarcely  be  too  homely  for  my  taste.  It  is  in  the  peace- 
ful aspect  of  all  Nature,  the  sense  of  calm  that  breathes 
from  every  leafy  grove  and  rippling  stream,  that  I feel 
the  soothing  influence  of  the  country.  I could  sit  beside 
the  trickling  stream  of  water,  clear  but  brown,  that  comes 
drop  by  drop  from  some  fissure  in  the  rocky  cliff  and  falls 
into  the  little  well  below,  and  dream  away  for  hours. 
These  slight  and  simple  sounds  that  break  the  silence  of 
the  calm  air  are  all  fraught  with  pleasant  thoughts;  the 
unbroken  stillness  of  a prairie  is  the  most  awful  thing  in 
all  Nature. 


190 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Unoppressed  in  lieart,  I took  my  way  along  the  river’s 
bank,  my  mind  revolving  the  quiet,  pleasant  thoughts  that 
silence  and  lovely  scenery  are  so  sure  to  suggest.  Towards 
noon  I sat  myself  down  on  a large  flat  rock  beside  the 
stream,  and  proceeded  to  make  my  humble  breakfast,  — 
some  bread  and  a few  cresses,  washed  down  with  a little 
water  scarce  flavored  with  brandy,  followed  by  my  pipe; 
and  I lay  watching  the  white  bubbles  that  flowed  by  me, 
until  I began  to  fancy  I could  read  a moral  lesson  in  their 
course.  Here  was  a great  swollen  fellow,  rotund  and  full, 
elbowing  out  of  his  way  all  his  lesser  brethren,  jostling 
and  pushing  aside  each  he  met  with;  but  at  last  bursting 
from  very  plethora,  and  disappearing  as  though  he  had 
never  been.  There  were  a myriad  of  little  bead-like 
specks,  floating  past  noiselessly,  and  yet  having  their 
own  goal  and  destination;  some  uniting  with  others,  grew 
stronger  and  hardier,  and  braved  the  current  with  bolder 
fortune,  while  others  vanished  ere  you  could  see  them 
well.  A low  murmuring  plash  against  the  reeds  beneath 
the  rock  drew  my  attention  to  the  place,  and  I perceived 
that  a little  boat,  like  a canoe,  was  fastened  by  a hay-rope 
to  the  bank,  and  surged  with  each  motion  of  the  stream 
against  the  weeds.  I looked  about  to  see  the  owner,  but 
no  one  could  I detect;  not  a living  thing  seemed  near,  nor 
even  a habitation  of  any  kind.  The  sun  at  that  moment 
shone  strongly  out,  lighting  up  all  the  rich  landscape  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  and  throwing  long  gleams 
into  a dense  beech-wood,  where  a dark,  grass-grown  alley 
entered.  Suddenly  the  desire  seized  me  to  enter  the  forest 
by  that  shady  path.  I strapped  on  my  knapsack  at  once, 
and  stepped  into  the  little  boat.  There  was  neither  oar 
nor  paddle,  but  as  the  river  was  shallow,  my  long  staff 
served  as  a pole  to  drive  her  across,  and  I reached  the 
shore  safely.  Fastening  the  craft  securely  to  a branch,  I 
set  forward  towards  the  wood.  As  I approached,  a little 
board  nailed  to  a tree  drew  my  eye  towards  it,  and  I 
read  the  nearly-effaced  inscription,  “Route  des  Ardennes.” 
What  a thrill  did  not  these  words  send  through  my  heart! 
And  was  this,  indeed,  the  forest  of  which  Shakspeare  told 
us?  Was  I really  “under  the  greenwood  tree,”  where  fair 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


191 


Rosalind  had  rested,  and  where  melancholy  Jaques  had 
mused  and  mourned?  And  as  I walked  along,  how  instinct 
with  his  spirit  did  each  spot  appear!  There  was  the  oak  — 

“ Whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  the  wood.” 

A little  farther  on  I came  upon  — 

“The  bank  of  osiers  by  the  murmuring  stream.” 

What  a bright  prerogative  has  genius,  that  thus  can 
people  space  with  images  which  time  and  years  erase  not, 
making  to  the  solitary  traveller  a world  of  bright  thoughts 
even  in  the  darkness  of  a lonely  wood!  And  so  to  me 
appeared,  as  though  before  me,  the  scenes  he  pictured. 
Each  rustling  breeze  that  shook  the  leafy  shade  seemed 
like  the  impetuous  passion  of  the  devoted  lover;  the  chirp- 
ing notes  of  the  wood-pigeon,  like  the  flippant  raillery  of 
beauteous  Rosalind;  and  in  the  low  ripple  of  the  brook  I 
heard  the  complaining  sounds  of  Jaques  himself. 

Sunk  in  such  pleasant  fancies  I lay  beneath  a spreading 
sycamore,  and  with  half-closed  lids  invoked  the  shades  of 
that  delightful  vision  before  me,  when  the  tramp  of  feet, 
moving  across  the  low  brushwood,  suddenly  aroused  me.  I 
started  up  on  one  knee,  and  listened.  The  next  moment 
three  men  emerged  from  the  wood  into  the  path.  The  two 
foremost,  dressed  in  blouses,  were  armed  with  carbines  and 
a sabre;  the  last  carried  a huge  sack  on  his  shoulders,  and 
seemed  to  move  with  considerable  difficulty. 

“ Ventre  du  diable ! ” cried  he  passionately,  as  he  placed 
his  burden  on  the  ground;  “don’t  hasten  on  this  way; 
they  ’ll  never  follow  us  so  far,  and  I am  half  dead  with 
fatigue.” 

“Come,  come,  Gros  Jean,”  said  one  of  the  others,  in  a 
voice  of  command,  “ we  must  not  halt  before  we  reach  the 
three  elms.” 

“Why  not  bury  it  here?”  replied  the  first  speaker,  “or 
else  take  your  share  of  the  labor?  ” 

“So  I would,”  retorted  the  other,  violently,  “if  you 


192 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


could  take  my  place  when  we  are  attacked ; but,  jparbleu, 
you  are  more  given  to  running  away  than  fighting.” 

During  this  brief  colloquy  my  heart  rose  to  my  mouth. 
The  ruffianly  looks  of  the  party,  their  arms,  their  savage 
demeanor,  and  their  secret  purpose,  whatever  it  was,  to 
which  I was  now  to  a certain  extent  privy,  filled  me  with 
terror;  and  I made  an  effort  to  draw  myself  back  on  my 
hands  into  the  brushwood  beneath  the  tree.  The  motion 
unfortunately  discovered  me;  and  with  a spring,  the  two 
armed  fellows  bounded  towards  me,  and  levelled  their 
pistols  at  my  head. 

“Who  are  you?  What  brings  you  here?”  shouted  they 
both  in  a breath. 

“For  Heaven’s  sake,  Messieurs,”  said  I,  “down  with 
your  pistols!  I am  only  a traveller,  a poor  inoffensive 
wanderer,  an  Englishman, — an  Irishman,  rather,  a good 
Catholic,”  — Heaven  forgive  me  if  I meant  an  equivoca- 
tion here!  — “lower  the  pistols,  I beseech  you.” 

“ Shoot  him  through  the  skull ; he ’s  a spy ! ” roared  the 
fellow  with  the  sack. 

“Hot  a bit  of  it,”  said  I;  “I ’m  a mere  traveller,  admir- 
ing the  country,  and  an  — ” 

“And  why  have  you  tracked  us  out  here?”  said  one  of 
the  first  speakers. 

“I  did  not;  I was  here  before  you  came.  Do  put  down 
the  pistols,  for  the  love  of  Mary ! there ’s  no  guarding 
against  accidents,  even  with  the  most  cautious.” 

“ Blow  his  brains  out ! ” reiterated  he  of  the  bag,  louder 
than  before. 

“Don’t,  Messieurs,  don’t  mind  him;  he’s  a coward! 
You  are  brave  men,  and  have  nothing  to  fear  from  a poor 
devil  like  me.” 

The  two  armed  fellows  laughed  heartily  at  this  speech, 
while  the  other,  throwing  the  sack  from  him,  rushed  at  me 
with  clenched  hands. 

“Hold  off,  Gros  Jean,”  said  one  of  his  companions;  “if 
he  never  tells  a heavier  lie  than  that  he  may  make  an  easy 
confession  on  Sunday;”  and  with  that  he  pushed  him 
rudely  back,  and  stood  between  us.  “Come,  then,”  cried 
he,  “take  up  that  sack  and  follow  us.” 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


193 


My  blood  curdled  at  the  order;  there  was  something 
fearful  in  the  very  look  of  the  long  bag  as  it  lay  on  the 
ground.  I thought  I could  actually  trace  the  outline  of  a 
human  figure.  Heaven  preserve  me,  I believed  I saw  it 
move ! 

“Take  it  up,”  cried  he,  sternly;  “there’s  no  fear  of  its 
biting  you.” 

“Ah,”  said  I to  myself,  “the  poor  fellow  is  dead,  then.” 

Without  more  ado  they  placed  the  bag  on  my  shoulders, 
and  ordered  me  to  move  forward. 

I grew  pale  and  sick,  and  tottered  at  each  step. 

“Is  it  the  smell  affects  you?”  said  one,  with  a demoniac 
sneer. 

“Pardon,  Messieurs,”  said  I,  endeavoring  to  pluck  up 
courage,  and  seem  at  ease;  “I  never  carried  a — a thing 
like  this  before.” 

“Step  out  briskly,”  cried  he;  “you  ’ve  a long  way  before 
you;”  and  with  that  he  moved  to  the  front,  while  the 
others  brought  up  the  rear. 

As  we  proceeded  on  our  way,  they  informed  me  that  if 
by  any  accident  they  should  be  overtaken  by  any  of  my 
friends  or  associates,  meaning  thereby  any  of  the  human 
race  that  should  chance  to  walk  that  way,  the  first  thing 
they  would  do  would  be  to  shoot  me  dead, — a circum- 
stance that  considerably  damped  all  my  ardor  for  a rescue, 
and  made  me  tremble  lest  at  any  turn  of  the  way  some 
fagot-gatherer  might  appear  in  sight.  Meanwhile,  never 
did  a man  labor  more  strenuously  to  win  the  favor  of  his 
company. 

I began  by  protesting  my  extreme  innocence ; vowed  that 
a man  of  more  estimable  and  amiable  qualities  than  myself 
never  did  nor  never  would  exist.  To  this  declaration  they 
listened  with  manifest  impatience  if  not  with  actual  dis- 
pleasure. I then  tried  another  tack.  I abused  the  rich 
and  commended  the  poor;  I harangued  in  round  terms  on 
the  grabbing  monopoly  of  the  great,  who  enjoyed  all  the 
good  things  of  this  life,  and  would  share  none  with  their 
neighbors;  I even  hinted  a sly  encomium  on  those  public- 
spirited  individuals  whose  gallantry  and  sense  of  justice 
led  them  to  risk  their  lives  in  endeavors  to  equalize  some- 

13 


194 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


what  more  fairly  this  world’s  wealth,  and  who  were  so 
ungenerously  styled  robbers  and  highwaymen,  though  they 
were  in  reality  benefactors  and  heroes.  But  they  only 
laughed  at  this;  nor  did  they  show  any  real  sympathy 
with  my  opinions  till  in  my  general  attack  on  all  consti- 
tuted authorities, — kings,  priests,  statesmen,  judges,  and 
gendarmes,  — by  chance  I included  revenue  officers.  The 
phrase  seemed  like  a spark  on  gunpowder. 

“Curses  be  on  the  wretches!  they  are  the  plague-spots 
of  the  world,”  cried  I,  seeing  how  they  caught  at  the  bait; 
“and  thrice  honored  the  brave  fellows  who  would  re- 
lieve suffering  humanity  from  the  burden  of  such  odious 
oppression.” 

A low  whispering  now  took  place  among  my  escort,  and 
at  length  he  who  seemed  the  leader  stopped  me  short,  and 
placing  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  cried  out,  — 

“Are  you  sincere  in  all  this?  Are  these  your  notions?” 

“Can  you  doubt  me?”  said  I.  “What  reasons  have  I 
for  speaking  them?  How  do  I know  but  you  are  revenue 
officers  that  listen  to  me?  ” 

“Enough,  you  shall  join  us.  We  are  going  to  pass  this 
sack  of  cigars.” 

“Ho!  these  are  cigars,  then,”  said  I,  brightening  up. 
“It  is  not  a — a — eh?  ” 

“They  are  Dutch  cigars,  and  the  best  that  can  be  made,” 
said  he,  not  minding  my  interruption.  “We  shall  pass 
them  over  the  frontier  by  Sedan  to-morrow  night,  and  then 
we  return  to  Dinant,  where  you  shall  come  with  us.” 

“Agreed,”  said  I,  while  a faint  chill  ran  through  my 
limbs,  and  I could  scarcely  stand,  — images  of  galley  life, 
irons  with  cannon-shot,  and  a yellow  uniform  all  flitting 
before  me.  From  this  moment  they  became  extremely 
communicative,  detailing  for  my  amusement  many  pleas- 
ing incidents  of  their  blameless  life,  — how  they  burned  a 
custom-house  here,  and  shot  an  inspector  there, — and  in 
fact  displaying  the  advantages  of  my  new  profession,  with 
all  its  attractions,  before  me.  How  I grinned  with  mock 
delight  at  atrocities  that  made  my  blood  curdle,  and 
chuckled  over  the  roasting  of  a revenue  officer  as  though 
he  had  been  a chestnut!  I affected  to  see  drollery  in 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


105 


cruelties  that  deserved  the  gallows,  and  laughed  till  the 
tears  came  at  horrors  that  nearly  made  me  faint.  My  con- 
currence and  sympathy  absolutely  delighted  the  devils, 
and  we  shook  hands  a dozen  times  over. 

It  was  evening,  when,  tired  and  ready  to  drop  with 
fatigue,  my  companions  called  a halt. 

“Come,  my  friend,”  said  the  chief,  “we’ll  relieve  you 
now  of  your  burden.  You  would  be  of  little  service  to  us 
at  the  frontier,  and  must  wait  for  us  here  till  our  return.” 

It  was  impossible  to  make  any  proposal  more  agreeable 
to  my  feelings.  The  very  thought  of  being  quit  of  my 
friends  was  ecstasy.  I did  not  dare,  however,  to  vent 
ray  raptures  openly,  but  satisfied  myself  with  a simple 
acquiescence. 

“And  when,”  said  I,  “am  I to  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  again,  gentlemen?” 

“By  to-morrow  forenoon,  at  farthest.” 

By  that  time,  thought  I,  I shall  have  made  good  use  of 
my  legs,  please  Heaven! 

“Meanwhile,”  said  Gros  Jean,  with  a grin  that  showed 
he  had  neither  forgotten  nor  forgiven  my  insults  to  his 
courage,  — “meanwhile  we  ’ll  just  beg  leave  to  fasten  you 
to  this  tree;”  and  with  the  words,  he  pulled  from  a great 
canvas  pocket  he  wore  at  his  belt  a hank  of  strong  cord, 
and  proceeded  to  make  a slip  noose  on  it. 

“It’s  not  your  intention,  surely,  to  tie  me  here  for  the 
whole  night?”  said  I,  in  horror. 

“ And  why  not?  ” interposed  the  chief.  “ Do  you  think 
there  are  bears  or  wolves  in  the  Ardennes  forest  in 
September?  ” 

“But  I shall  die  of  cold  or  hunger!  I never  endured 
such  usage  before ! ” 

“You’ll  have  plenty  worse  when  you’ve  joined  us,  I 
promise  you,”  was  the  short  reply,  as  without  further  loss 
of  time  they  passed  the  cord  round  my  waist,  and  began, 
with  a dexterity  that  bespoke  long  practice,  to  fasten  me 
to  the  tree.  I protested  vigorously  against  the  proceed- 
ing; I declaimed  loudly  about  the  liberty  of  the  subject; 
vowed  that  England  would  take  a frightful  measure  of 
retribution  on  the  whole  country,  if  a hair  of  my  head 


196 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


were  injured,  and  even  went  so  far  in  the  fervor  of  my 
indignation  as  to  threaten  the  party  with  future  conse- 
quences from  the  police. 

The  word  was  enough.  The  leader  drew  his  pistol  from 
his  belt,  and  slapping  down  the  pan,  shook  the  priming 
with  his  hand. 

“So,”  cried  he,  in  a harsh  and  savage  voice,  unlike  his 
former  tone,  “you ’d  play  the  informer  would  you?  Well, 
it ’s  honest  at  least  to  say  as  much.  Now  then,  my  man, 
a quick  shrift  and  a short  prayer,  for  I ’ll  send  you  where 
you  ’ll  meet  neither  gendarmes  nor  revenue  officers,  or  if 
you  do,  they  ’ll  have  enough  of  business  on  their  hands 
not  to  care  for  yours.” 

“Spare  my  life,  most  amiable  Monsieur,”  said  I,  with  up- 
lifted hands.  “Never  shall  I utter  one  word  about  you, 
come  what  will.  I ’ll  keep  all  I ’ve  seen  a secret.  Don’t 
kill  the  father  of  eight  children.  Let  me  live  this  time, 
and  I ’ll  never  wander  off  a turnpike  road  three  yards  as 
long  as  I breathe.” 

They  actually  screamed  with  laughter  at  the  terror  of 
my  looks;  and  the  chief,  seemingly  satisfied  with  my  pro- 
testation, replaced  his  pistol  in  his  belt,  and  kneeling  down 
on  the  ground  began  leisurely  to  examine  my  knapsack, 
which  he  coolly  unstrapped  and  emptied  on  the  grass. 

“What  are  these  papers?”  said  he,  as  he  drew  forth  a 
most  voluminous  roll  of  manuscript  from  a pocket. 

“They  are  notes  of  my  travels,”  said  I,  obsequiously,  — 
“little  pen  sketches  of  men  and  manners  in  the  countries 
I ’ve  travelled  in.  I call  them  ‘Adventures  of  Arthur 
O’Leary.’  That’s  my  name,  gentlemen,  at  your  service.” 

“Ah,  indeed.  Well,  then,  we’ve  given  you  a very 
pretty  little  incident  for  your  journal  this  evening,”  said 
he,  laughing,  “in  return  for  which  I ’ll  ask  leave  to  borrow 
these  memoranda  for  wadding  for  my  gun.  Believe  me, 
Monsieur  O’Leary,  they’ll  make  a greater  noise  in  the 
world  under  my  auspices  than  under  yours;”  and  with 
that  he  opened  a rude  clasp-knife  and  proceeded  to  cut  my 
valued  manuscript  into  pieces  about  an  inch  square.  This 
done,  he  presented  two  of  my  shirts  to  each  of  his  fol- 
lowers, reserving  three  for  himself;  and  having  made  a 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


197 


most  impartial  division  of  my  other  effects,  he  pocketed 
the  purse  I carried,  with  its  few  gold  pieces,  and  then, 
rising  to  his  feet,  said,  — 

“Antoine,  let  us  be  stirring  now;  the  moon  will  be  up 
soon.  Gros  Jean,  throw  that  sack  on  your  shoulder  and 
move  forward.  And  now,  Monsieur,  I must  wish  you  a 
good-niglit;  and  as  in  this  changeful  life  we  can  never 
answer  for  the  future,  let  me  commend  myself  to  your 
recollection  hereafter,  if,  as  may  be,  we  should  not  meet 
again.  Adieu,  adieu,”  said  he,  waving  his  hand. 

“Adieu,”  said  I,  with  a great  effort  to  seem  at  ease; 
“a  pleasant  journey,  and  every  success  to  your  honest 
endeavors.” 

“You  are  a fine  fellow,”  said  he,  stopping  and  turning 
about  suddenly,  — “a  superb  fellow;  and  I can’t  part  from 
you  without  a gage  d’amitie  between  us;”  and  with  the 
word  he  took  my  handsome  travelling-cap  from  my  head 
and  placed  it  on  his  own,  while  he  crowned  me  with  a 
villanous  straw  thing  that  nothing  save  my  bondage  pre- 
vented me  from  hurling  at  his  feet. 

He  now  hurried  forward  after  the  others,  and  in  a few 
minutes  I was  in  perfect  solitude. 

“Well,”  thought  I (it  was  my  first  thought),  “it  might 
all  have  been  worse;  the  wretches  might  have  murdered 
me,  for  such  reckless  devils  as  practise  their  trade  care 
little  for  human  life.  Murder,  too,  would  only  meet  the 
same  punishment  as  smuggling,  or  nearly  so,  — a year  more 
or  a year  less  at  the  galleys;  and,  after  all,  the  night  is 
fine,  and  if  I mistake  not  he  said  something  about  the 
moon.”  I wondered  where  was  the  pretty  countess,  — 
travelling  away,  probably,  as  hard  as  extra  post  could 
bring  her.  Ah,  she  little  thought  of  my  miserable  plight 
now!  Then  came  a little  interval  of  softness;  and  then 
a little  turn  of  indignation  at  my  treatment,  — that  I,  an 
Englishman,  should  be  so  barbarously  molested;  a native 
of  the  land  where  freedom  was  the  great  birthright  of 
every  one!  I called  to  mind  all  the  fine  things  Burke 
used  to  say  about  liberty,  and  if  I had  not  begun  to  feel 
so  cold  I’d  have  tried  to  sing  “Rule  Britannia,”  just  to 
keep  up  my  spirits ; and  then  I fell  asleep,  if  sleep  it  could 


198 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


be  called, — that  frightful  nightmare  of  famished  wolves 
howling  about  me,  tearing  and  mangling  revenue  officers; 
and  grisly  bears  running  backward  and  forward  with 
smuggled  tobacco  on  their  backs.  The  forest  seemed 
peopled  by  every  species  of  horrible  shapes,  — half  men, 
half  beast,  — but  all  with  straw  hats  on  their  heads  and 
leather  gaiters  on  their  legs. 

However,  the  night  passed  over,  and  the  day  began  to 
break;  the  purple  tint,  pale  and  streaky,  that  announces 
the  rising  sun,  was  replacing  the  cold  gray  of  the  darker 
hours.  What  a different  thing  it  is,  to  be  sure,  to  get  out 
of  your  bed  deliberately,  and  rubbing  your  eyes  for  two  or 
three  minutes  with  your  fingers,  as  you  stand  at  the  half- 
closed  curtain,  and  then  through  the  mist  of  your  sleep 
look  out  upon  the  east,  and  think  you  see  the  sun  rising, 
and  totter  back  to  the  comfortable  nest  again;  the  whole 
incident  not  breaking  your  sleep,  but  merely  being  inter- 
woven with  your  dreams,  a thing  to  dwell  on  among  other 
pleasant  fancies,  and  to  be  boasted  of  the  whole  day  after- 
wards, — what  a different  thing  it  is,  I say,  from  the 
sensations  of  him  who  has  been  up  all  night  in  the  mail; 
shaken,  bruised,  and  cramped;  sat  on  by  the  fat  man,  and 
kicked  by  the  lean  one,  — still  worse  of  him  who  spends 
his  night  dos  a dos  to  an  oak  in  a forest,  cold,  chill  and 
comfortless;  no  property  in  his  limbs  beneath  the  knees, 
where  all  sensation  terminates,  and  his  hands  as  benumbed 
as  the  heart  of  a poor-law  guardian! 

If  I have  never,  in  all  my  after  life,  seen  the  sun  rise 
from  the  Rigi,  from  Snowdon,  or  the  Pic  du  Midi,  or  any 
other  place  which  seems  especially  made  for  this  sole  pur- 
pose, I owe  it  to  the  experience  of  this  night,  and  am  grate- 
ful therefore.  Not  that  I have  the  most  remote  notion  of 
throwing  disrespect  on  the  glorious  luminary,  far  from  it, 
— I cut  one  of  my  oldest  friends  for  speaking  lightly  of 
the  equator;  but  I hold  it  that  the  sun  looks  best,  as  every 
one  else  does,  when  he ’s  up  and  dressed  for  the  day.  It ’s 
a piece  of  prying,  impertinent  curiosity  to  peep  at  him 
when  he  \s  rising  and  at  his  toilette;  he  has  not  rubbed  the 
clouds  out  of  his  eyes,  or  you  dared  not  look  at  him,  — and 
you  feel  it  too.  The  very  way  you  steal  out  to  catch  a 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


199 


glimpse  shows  the  sneaking,  contemptible  sense  you  have 
of  your  own  act.  Peeping  Tom  was  a gentleman  compared 
to  your  early  riser. 

The  whole  of  which  digression  simply  seems  to  say  that 
I by  no  means  enjoyed  the  rosy-tingered  morning’s  blushes 
the  more  for  having  spent  the  preceding  night  in  the  open 
air.  I need  not  worry  myself,  still  less  my  reader,  by 
recapitulating  the  various  frames  of  mind  which  succeeded 
each  other  every  hour  of  my  captivity.  At  one  time  my 
escape  with  life  served  to  console  me  for  all  I endured;  at 
another,  my  bondage  excited  my  whole  wrath.  1 vowed 
vengeance  on  my  persecutors  too,  and  meditated  various 
schemes  for  their  punishment,  — my  anger  rising  as  their 
absence  was  prolonged,  till  I thought  I could  calculate  my 
indignation  by  an  algebraical  formula,  and  make  it  exactly 
equal  to  the  “squares  of  the  distance”  of  my  persecutors. 
Then  I thought  of  the  delight  I should  experience  in 
regaining  my  freedom,  and  actually  made  a bold  effort  to 
see  something  ludicrous  in  the  entire  adventure:  but  no,  — 
it  would  not  do;  I could  not  summon  up  a laugh. 

At  last  — it  might  have  been  towards  noon  — I heard  a 
merry  voice  chanting  a song,  and  a quick  step  coming  up 
the  allee  of  the  wood.  Never  did  my  heart  beat  with  such 
delight!  The  very  mode  of  progression  had  something 
joyous  in  it;  it  seemed  a hop  and  a step  and  a spring, 
suiting  each  motion  to  the  tune  of  the  air, — when  sud- 
denly the  singer,  with  a long  bound,  stood  before  me.  It 
would,  indeed,  have  been  a puzzling  question  which  of  us 
more  surprised  the  other;  however  as  I can  render  no  accu- 
rate account  of  his  sensations  on  seeing  me,  1 must  content 
myself  with  recording  mine  on  beholding  him,  and  the  best 
way  to  do  so  is  to  describe  him.  He  was  a man,  or  a boy, 
— Heaven  knows  which,  — of  something  under  the  middle 
size,  dressed  in  rags  of  every  color  and  shape;  his  old  white 
hat  was  crushed  and  bent  into  some  faint  resemblance  of  a 
chapeau , and  decorated  with  a cockade  of  dirty  ribbons  and 
a cock’s  feather;  a little  white  jacket,  such  as  men-cooks 
wear  in  the  kitchen,  and  a pair  of  flaming  crimson-plush 
shorts,  cut  above  the  knee,  and  displaying  his  naked  legs, 
with  sabots,  formed  his  costume.  A wooden  sword  was 


200 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY 


attached  to  an  old  belt  round  his  waist,  — an  ornament 
of  which  he  seemed  vastly  proud,  and  which  from  time  to 
time  he  regarded  with  no  small  satisfaction. 

“Holloa!”  cried  he,  starting  back,  as  he  stood  some  six 
paces  off,  and  gazed  at  me  with  most  unequivocal  astonish- 
ment; then  recovering  his  self-possession  long  before  I 
could  summon  mine,  he  said,  “Bonjour,  bonjour,  cama- 
rade!  a fine  day  for  the  vintage.” 

“No  better,”  said  I;  “but  come  a little  nearer,  and  do 
me  the  favor  to  untie  these  cords.” 

“Ah,  are  you  long  fastened  up  there?” 

“The  whole  night,”  said  I,  in  a lamentable  accent, 
hoping  to  move  his  compassion  the  more  speedily. 

“What  fun!”  said  he,  chuckling.  “Were  there  many 
squirrels  about?  ” 

“Thousands  of  them.  But,  come,  be  quick  and  undo 
this,  and  I ’ll  tell  you  all  about  it.” 

“Gently,  gently,”  said  he,  approaching  with  great  cau- 
tion about  six  inches  nearer  me.  “ When  did  the  rabbits 
come  out?  Was  it  before  day?” 

“Yes,  yes,  an  hour  before.  But  I ’ll  tell  you  everything 
when  I ’m  loose.  Be  alive  now,  do!  ” 

“ Why  did  you  tie  yourself  so  fast?  ” said  he,  eagerly, 
but  not  venturing  to  come  closer. 

“Confound  the  fellow!  ” said  I,  passionately.  “I  didn’t 
tie  myself ; it  was  the  — the  — ” 

“Ah,  I know;  it  was  the  mayor,  old  Pierre  Bogout. 
Well,  well,  he  knows  best  when  you  ought  to  be  set  free. 
Bonjour,”  and  with  that  he  began  once  more  his  infernal 
tune,  and  set  out  on  his  way  as  if  nothing  had  happened; 
and  though  I called,  prayed,  swore,  promised,  and  threat- 
ened with  all  my  might,  he  never  turned  his  head,  but 
went  on  capering  as  before,  and  soon  disappeared  in  the 
dark  wood. 

For  a full  hour,  passion  so  completely  mastered  me  that 
I could  do  nothing  but  revile  fools  and  idiots  of  every  shade 
and  degree  — inveighing  against  mental  imbecility  as  the 
height  of  human  wickedness,  and  wondering  why  no  one 
had  ever  suggested  the  propriety  of  having  “ naturals  ” 
publicly  whipped.  I am  shocked  at  myself  now,  as  I call 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


201 


to  mind  the  extravagance  of  my  anger;  and  I grieve  to  say 
that  had  I been  for  that  short  interval  the  proprietor  of  a 
private  madhouse,  1 fear  I should  have  been  betrayed  into 
the  most  unwarrantable  cruelties  towards  the  patients; 
indeed,  what  is  technically  called  “moral  government” 
would  have  formed  no  part  of  my  system. 

Meanwhile  time  was  moving  on,  if  not  pleasantly,  at 
least  steadily;  and  already  the  sun  began  to  decline  some- 
what,— his  rays,  that  before  came  vertically,  being  now 
slanting  as  they  fell  upon  the  wood.  For  awhile  my 
attention  was  drawn  off  from  my  miseries  by  watching 
the  weasels  as  they  played  and  sported  about  me,  in  the 
confident  belief  that  I was  at  best  only  a kind  of  fungus,  — 
an  excrescence  on  an  oak-tree.  One  of  them  came  actually 
to  my  feet,  and  even  ran  across  my  instep  in  his  play. 
Suddenly  the  thought  ran  through  me  — and  with  terror  — 
how  soon  may  it  come  to  pass  that  I shall  only  be  a miser- 
able skeleton,  pecked  at  by  crows,  and  nibbled  by  squir- 
rels! The  idea  was  too  dreadful;  and  as  if  the  hour  had 
actually  come,  I screamed  out  to  frighten  off  the  little 
creatures,  and  sent  them  back  scampering  into  their  dens. 

“Holloa  there!  what’s  the  matter?”  shouted  a deep 
mellow  voice  from  the  middle  of  the  wood;  and  before  I 
could  reply,  a fat,  rosy-cheeked  man  of  about  fifty,  with  a 
pleasant  countenance  terminating  in  a row  of  double  chins, 
approached  me,  but  still  with  evident  caution,  and  halting 
when  about  five  paces  distant,  stood  still. 

“Who  are  you?”  said  I,  hastily,  resolving  this  time  at 
least  to  adopt  a different  method  of  effecting  my  liberation. 

“What’s  all  this?”  quoth  the  fat  man,  shading  his  eyes 
with  his  palm,  and  addressing  some  one  behind  him,  whom 
I now  recognized  as  my  friend  the  fool  who  visited  me  in 
the  morning. 

“I  say,  sir,”  repeated  I,  in  a note  of  command  somewhat 
absurd  from  a man  in  my  situation,  “ who  are  you,  may  I 
ask?  ” 

“The  Maire  de  Givct,”  said  he,  pompously,  as  he  drew 
himself  up,  and  took  a large  pinch  of  snuff  with  an  impos- 
ing gravity,  while  his  companion  took  off  his  hat  in  the 
most  reverent  fashion,  and  bowed  down  to  the  ground. 


202 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“Well,  Monsieur  le  Maire,  the  better  fortune  mine  to 
fall  into  such  hands.  I have  been  robbed,  and  fastened 
here,  as  you  see,  by  a gang  of  scoundrels,”  — I took  good 
care  to  say  nothing  of  smugglers,  — “ who  have  carried 
away  everything  I possessed.  Have  the  goodness  to 
loosen  these  confounded  cords,  and  set  me  at  liberty.” 

“Were  there  many  of  them?”  quoth  the  mayor,  without 
budging  a step  forward. 

“Yes,  a dozen  at  least.  But  untie  me  at  once.  I’m 
heartily  sick  of  being  chained  up  here.” 

“A  dozen  at  least!  ” repeated  he,  in  an  accent  of  wonder- 
ment. “Ma  foi,  a very  formidable  gang.  Do  you  remem- 
ber any  of  their  names?  ” 

“Devil  take  their  names!  how  should  I know  them? 
Come,  cut  these  cords,  will  you?  We  can  talk  just  as 
well  when  I’m  free.” 

“Not  so  fast,  not  so  fast,”  said  he,  admonishing  me 
with  a bland  motion  of  his  hand.  “Everything  must  be 
done  in  order.  Now,  since  you  don’t  know  their  names, 
we  must  put  them  down  as  ‘ parties  unknown.’  ” 

“But  them  down  whatever  you  like;  but  let  me  loose!  ” 

“All  in  good  time.  Let  us  proceed  regularly.  Who  are 
your  witnesses?  ” 

“Witnesses!”  screamed  I,  overcome  with  passion; 
“you’ll  drive  me  distracted!  I tell  you  1 was  waylaid 
in  the  wood  by  a party  of  scoundrels,  and  you  ask  me  for 
their  names,  and  then  for  my  witnesses!  Cat  these  cords, 
and  don’t  be  so  infernally  stupid!  Come,  old  fellow,  look 
alive,  will  you?  ” 

“Softly,  softly;  don’t  interrupt  public  justice,”  said  he, 
with  a most  provoking  composure.  “We  must  draw  up  the 
proces  verbal .” 

“To  be  sure,”  said  I,  endeavoring  to  see  what  might  be 
done  by  concurrence  with  him,  “nothing  more  natural. 
But  let  me  loose  first;  and  then  we  ’ll  arrange  the  proc&s.” 

“Not  at  all;  you  ’re  all  wrong,”  interposed  he.  “I  must 
have  two  witnesses  first,  to  establish  the  fact  of  your  pres- 
ent position ; ay,  and  they  must  be  of  sound  mind,  and  able 
to  sign  their  names.” 

“May  Heaven  grant  me  patience,  or  I’ll  burst!”  said 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


203 


I to  myself,  while  he  continued  in  a regular  sing-song 
tone,  — 

“Then  we’ll  take  the  depositions  in  form.  Where  do 
you  come  from?  ” 

“Ireland,”  said  I,  with  a deep  sigh,  wishing  I were  up 
to  the  neck  in  a bog-hole  there,  in  preference  to  my  actual 
misfortune. 

“What  language  do  you  usually  speak?” 

“ English.” 

“There,  now,”  said  he,  brightening  up,  “there’s  an 
important  fact  already  in  the  class  No.  1, — identity, — 
which  speaks  of  ‘ all  traits,  marks,  and  characteristic  signs 
by  which  the  plaintiff  may  be  known.’  Now,  we’ll  set 
you  forth  as  ‘ an  Irishman  that  speaks  English.’  ” 

“ If  you  go  on  this  way  a little  longer,  you  may  put  me 
down  as  ‘ insane,’  for  I vow  to  heaven  I ’in  becoming  so!  ” 

“Come,  Bobeche,”  said  he,  turning  towards  the  natural, 
who  stood  in  mute  admiration  at  his  side,  “go  over  to 
Claude  Gueirans,  at  the  mill,  and  see  if  the  notaire  be  up 
there, — there  was  a marriage  of  his  niece  this  morning, 
and  I think  you’ll  find  him;  then  cross  the  bridge,  and 
make  for  Papalot’s,  and  ask  him  to  come  up  here,  and 
bring  some  stamped  paper  to  take  informations  with  him. 
You  may  tell  the  cure  as  you  go  by  that  there ’s  been  a 
dreadful  crime  committed  in  the  forest,  and  that  ‘ Injustice 
s’informe.’”  These  last  words  were  pronounced  with  an 
accent  of  the  most  magniloquent  solemnity. 

Scarcely  had  the  fool  set  out  on  his  errand  when  my 
temper,  so  long  restrained,  burst  all  bounds,  and  I abused 
the  mayor  in  the  most  outrageous  manner.  There  was  no 
insult  I could  think  of  that  I did  not  heap  on  his  absurd- 
ity, his  ignorance,  his  folly,  his  stupidity;  and  I never 
ceased  till  actually  want  of  breath  completely  exhausted 
me.  To  all  this  the  worthy  man  made  no  reply,  nor  paid 
even  the  least  attention.  Seated  on  the  stump  of  a beech- 
tree,  he  looked  steadily  at  vacancy,  till  at  length  I began 
to  doubt  whether  the  whole  scene  were  real,  and  if  he  were 
not  a mere  creature  of  my  imagination.  I verily  believe 
I ’d  have  given  five  louis  d’ors  to  have  been  free  one  mo- 
ment, if  only  to  pelt  a stone  at  him. 


204 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Meanwhile,  the  shadow  of  coming  night  was  falling  on 
the  forest;  the  crows  came  cawing  home  to  their  dwelling 
in  the  tree-tops;  the  sounds  of  insect  life  were  stilled  in 
the  grass;  and  the  odors  of  the  forest,  stronger  as  night 
closed  in,  filled  the  air.  Gradually  the  darkness  grew 
thicker  and  thicker,  and  at  last  all  I could  distinguish 
was  the  stems  of  the  trees  near  me,  and  a massive  black 
object  I judged  to  be  the  mayor.  I called  out  to  him  in 
accents  intended  to  be  most  apologetic.  I begged  forgive- 
ness for  my  warmth  of  temper;  protested  my  regrets,  and 
only  asked  for  the  pleasure  of  his  entertaining  society  till 
the  hour  of  my  liberation  should  arrive.  But  no  answer 
came;  not  a word,  not  a syllable  in  reply, — I could  not 
even  hear  him  breathing.  Provoked  at  this  uncomplying 
obstinacy,  I renewed  my  attacks  on  all  constituted  author- 
ities; expressed  the  most  lively  hopes  that  the  gang  of 
robbers  would  some  day  or  other  burn  down  Givet  and  all 
it  contained,  not  forgetting  the  mayor  and  the  notary;  and, 
finally,  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  insult,  tried  to  sing  the 
ga  ira , which  in  good  monarchical  Holland  was,  I knew,  a 
dire  offence,  but  I broke  down  in  the  melody,  and  had  to 
come  back  to  prose.  However,  it  came  just  to  the  same, 
— all  was  silent.  When  I ceased  speaking,  not  even  an 
echo  returned  me  a reply.  At  last  I grew  wearied;  the 
thought  that  all  my  anathemas  had  only  an  audience  of 
weasels  and  woodpeckers  damped  the  ardor  of  my  elo- 
quence, and  I fell  into  a musing  fit  on  Dutch  justice,  which 
seemed  admirably  adapted  to  those  good  old  times  when 
people  lived  to  the  age  of  eight  or  nine  hundred  years,  and 
when  a few  months  were  as  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Then 
T began  a little  plan  of  a tour  from  the  time  of  my  libera- 
tion, cautiously  resolving  never  to  move  out  of  the  most 
beaten  tracks,  and  to  avoid  all  districts  where  the  mayor 
was  a Dutchman.  Hunger  and  thirst  and  cold  by  this  time 
began  to  tell  upon  my  spirits  too,  and  I grew  sleepy  from 
sheer  exhaustion. 

Scarcely  had  I nodded  my  head  twice  in  slumber,  when 
a loud  shout  awoke  me.  I opened  my  eyes,  and  saw  a vast 
mob  of  men,  women,  and  children  carrying  torches,  and 
coming  through  the  wood  at  full  speed,  the  procession 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


205 


being  led  by  a venerable-looking  old  man  on  a white  pony, 
whom  L at  once  guessed  to  be  the  cure,  while  the  fool,  with  a 
very  imposing  branch  of  burning  pine,  walked  beside  him. 

“Good-evening  to  you,  Monsieur,”  said  the  old  man,  as 
he  took  off  his  hat,  with  an  air  of  courtesy. 

“ You  must  excuse  the  miserable  plight  I ’in  in,  Monsieur 
le  Cure,”  said  I,  “if  I can’t  return  your  politeness;  but 
I ’m  tied.” 

“Cut  the  cords  at  once,”  said  the  good  man  to  the  crowd 
that  now  pressed  forward. 

“Your  pardon,  Father  Jacques,”  said  the  mayor,  as  he 
sat  up  in  the  grass  and  rubbed  his  eyes,  which  sleep  seemed 
to  have  almost  obliterated;  “ but  the  proces  verbal  is  — ” 

“Quite  unnecessary  here,”  replied  the  old  man.  “Cut 
the  rope,  my  friends.” 

“Not  so  fast,”  said  the  mayor,  pushing  towards  me. 
“I’ll  untie  it.  That’s  a good  cord,  and  worth  eight 
sous.” 

And  so,  notwithstanding  all  my  assurances  that  I ’d  give 
him  a crown-piece  to  use  more  despatch,  he  proceeded  leis- 
urely to  unfasten  every  knot,  and  took  at  least  ten  minutes 
before  he  set  me  at  liberty. 

“Hurra!”  said  I,  as  the  last  coil  was  withdrawn,  and  I 
attempted  to  spring  into  the  air;  but  my  cramped  and 
chilled  limbs  were  unequal  to  the  effort,  and  I rolled  head- 
long on  the  grass. 

The  worthy  cure,  however,  was  at  once  beside  me,  and 
after  a few  directions  to  the  party  to  make  a litter  for  me, 
he  knelt  down  to  offer  up  a short  prayer  for  my  deliver- 
ance; the  rest  followed  the  act  with  implicit  devotion, 
while  I took  off  my  hat  in  respect,  and  sat  still  where  I 
was. 

“I  see,”  whispered  he,  when  the  are  was  over,  — “I  see 
you  are  a Protestant.  This  is  a fast  day  with  us;  but 
we  ’ll  get  you  a poulet  at  my  cottage,  and  a glass  of  wine 
will  soon  refresh  you.” 

With  many  a thankful  speech,  I soon  suffered  myself  to 
be  lifted  into  a large  sheet,  such  as  they  use  in  the  vine- 
yards; and  with  a strong  cortege  of  the  villagers  carrying 
their  torches,  we  took  our  way  back  to  Givet. 


206 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


The  circumstances  of  my  adventure,  considerably  exag- 
gerated of  course,  were  bruited  over  the  country;  and 
before  I was  out  of  bed  next  morning,  a chasseur , in  a 
very  showy  livery,  arrived  with  a letter  from  the  lord  of 
the  manor,  entreating  me  to  take  my  abode  for  some  days 
at  the  Chateau  de  Rochepied,  where  I should  be  received 
with  a perfect  welcome,  and  every  endeavor  made  to 
recover  my  lost  effects.  Having  consulted  with  the 
worthy  cure , who  counselled  me  by  all  means  to  accept 
this  flattering  invitation, — a course  I was  myself  dis- 
posed to,  — I wrote  a few  lines  of  answer,  and  despatched 
a messenger  by  post  to  Dinant  to  bring  up  my  heavy  bag- 
gage, which  I had  left  there. 

Towards  noon  the  count’s  carriage  drove  up  to  convey 
me  to  the  chateau ; and  having  taken  an  affectionate  fare- 
well of  my  kind  host,  I set  out  for  Rochepied.  The  wicker 
conveniency  in  which  I travelled,  all  alone,  albeit  not  the 
thing  for  Hyde  Park,  was  easy  and  pleasant  in  its  motion; 
the  fat  Flemish  mares,  with  their  long  tails  tastefully  fes- 
tooned over  a huge  cushion  of  plaited  straw  on  their  backs, 
went  at  a fair  steady  pace;  the  road  led  through  a part  of 
the  forest  abounding  in  pretty  vistas  of  woodland  scenery; 
and  everything  conspired  to  make  me  feel  that  even  an 
affair  with  a gang  of  smugglers  might  not  be  the  worst 
thing  in  life,  if  it  were  to  lead  to  such  pleasant  results 
afterwards. 

As  we  jogged  along,  I learned  from  the  fat  Walloon 
coachman  that  the  chateau  was  full  of  company;  that  the 
count  had  invited  numerous  guests  for  the  opening  of  the 
chasse,  and  that  there  were  French  and  Germans  and 
English,  and  for  aught  he  knew  Chinese  expected  to 
“assist”  at  the  ceremony.  I confess  the  information 
considerably  damped  the  pleasure  I at  first  experienced. 
I was  in  hopes  to  see  real  country  life,  the  regular  course 
of  chateau  existence,  in  a family  quietly  domesticated  on 
their  own  property.  I looked  forward  to  a peep  at  that 
vie  intime  of  Flemish  household,  of  which  all  I knew  was 
gathered  from  a Wenix  picture,  and  I wanted  to  see  the 
thing  in  reality.  The  good  vrow,  with  her  high  cap  and 
her  long  waist,  her  pale  features  lit  up  with  eyes  of  such 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


207 


brown  as  only  Vandyck  ever  caught  the  color  of;  the 
daughters,  prim  and  stately,  with  their  stiff,  quaint  cour- 
tesy, moving  about  the  terraced  walks,  like  figures  step- 
ping from  an  ancient  canvas,  with  bouquets  in  their  white 
and  dimpled  fingers,  or  mayhap  a jess-hawk  perched  upon 
their  wrist:  the  Mynheer  Baron,  a large  and  portly  Flem- 
ing, with  a slouched  beaver  and  a short  trim  mustache, 
deep  of  voice,  heavy  of  step,  seated  on  a gray  Cuyp-like 
horse,  with  a flowing  mane  and  a huge  tassel  of  a tail, 
flapping  lazily  his  brawny  flanks,  or  slapping  with  heavy 
stroke  the  massive  jack-boots  of  his  rider,  — such  were  my 
notions  of  a Dutch  household.  The  unchanged  looks  of 
the  dwellings,  which  for  centuries  were  the  same,  in  part 
suggested  these  thoughts.  The  quaint  old  turrets,  the  stiff 
and  stately  terraces,  the  fosse,  stagnant  and  sluggish,  the 
carved  tracery  of  the  massive  doorway,  were  all  as  we  see 
them  in  the  oldest  pictures  of  the  land;  and  when  the 
rind  looks  so  like,  it  is  hard  to  imagine  the  fruit  with  a 
different  flavor. 

It  was  then  with  considerable  regret  I learned  that  I 
should  see  the  family  en  gala ; that  I had  fallen  upon  a 
time  of  feasting  and  entertainment.  Had  it  not  been  too 
late,  I should  have  beaten  my  retreat,  and  taken  up  my 
abode  for  another  day  with  the  cure  of  Givet;  as  it  was,  I 
resolved  to  make  my  visit  as  brief  as  possible,  and  take  to 
the  road  with  all  convenient  despatch. 

As  we  neared  the  chateau,  the  Walloon  remembered  a 
number  of  apologies  with  which  the  count  charged  him  to 
account  for  his  not  having  gone  himself  to  fetch  me,  alleg- 
ing the  claims  of  his  other  guests,  and  the  unavoidable 
details  which  the  forthcoming  ouvertare  de  chasse  de- 
manded at  his  hands.  I paid  little  attention  to  the 
mumbled  and  broken  narrative,  interrupted  by  impreca- 
tions on  the  road  and  exhortations  to  the  horses;  for 
already  we  had  entered  the  precincts  of  the  demesne,  and 
1 was  busy  in  noting  down  the  appearance  of  the  place. 
There  was,  however,  little  to  remark.  The  transition 
from  the  wide  forest  to  the  park  was  only  marked  by  a 
little  improvement  in  the  road;  there  was  neither  lodge 
nor  gate,  — no  wall,  no  fence,  no  inclosure  of  any  kind. 


208 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


The  trim  culture  which  in  our  country  is  so  observable 
around  the  approach  of  a house  of  some  consequence,  was 
here  totally  wanting;  the  avenue  was  partly  of  gravel, 
partly  of  smooth  turf;  the  brushwood  of  prickly  holly  was 
let  grow  wild,  and  straggled  in  many  places  across  the 
road;  the  occasional  views  that  opened  seemed  to  have 
been  made  by  accident,  not  design;  and  all  was  rank  vege- 
tation and  rich  verdure,  uncared  for,  — uncultivated,  but 
like  the  children  of  the  poor,  seeming  only  the  healthier 
and  more  robust,  because  left  to  their  own  unchecked, 
untutored  impulses.  The  rabbits  played  about  within  a 
few  paces  of  the  carriage  tracks;  the  birds  sat  motionless 
on  the  trees  as  we  passed,  while  here  and  there  through 
the  foliage  I could  detect  the  gorgeous  coloring  of  some 
bright  peacock’s  tail,  as  he  rested  on  a bough  and  held 
converse  with  his  wilder  brethren  of  the  air,  just  as  if  the 
remoteness  of  the  spot  and  its  seclusions  led  to  intimacies 
which  in  the  ordinary  routine  of  life  had  been  impossible. 
At  length  the  trees  receded  farther  and  farther  from  the 
road,  and  a beautiful  expanse  of  waving  lawn,  dotted  with 
sheep,  stretched  before  the  eye.  In  the  distance,  too,  I 
could  perceive  the  chateau  itself,  — a massive  pile  in  the 
shape  of  a letter  L,  bristling  with  chimneys,  and  pierced 
with  windows  of  every  size  and  shape;  clumps  of  flowering 
shrubs  and  fruit-trees  were  planted  about,  and  little  beds 
of  flowers  spangled  the  even  turf  like  stars  in  the  expanse 
of  heaven.  The  Meuse  wound  round  the  chateau  on  three 
sides,  and  perhaps  thus  saved  it  from  being  inflicted  by  a 
ditch,  for  without  water  a Dutchman  can  no  more  exist 
than  a mackerel. 

“Fine!  isn’t  it?”  said  the  Walloon,  as  he  pointed  with 
his  Anger  to  the  scene  before  me,  and  seemed  to  revel  with 
delight  in  my  look  of  astonishment,  while  he  plied  his 
whip  with  renewed  vigor,  and  soon  drew  up  at  a wide  flight 
of  stone  steps,  where  a row  of  orange-trees  mounted  guard 
on  each  side,  and  filled  the  place  with  their  fragrance. 

A servant  in  the  strange  melange  of  a livery,  where  the 
colors  seemed  chosen  from  a bed  of  ranunculuses  just  near, 
came  out  to  let  down  the  steps  and  usher  me  into  the 
house.  He  informed  me  that  the  count  had  given  orders 


A FRAGMENT  OF  FOREST  LIFE. 


209 


for  my  reception,  but  that  he  and  all  his  friends  were  out 
on  horseback,  and  would  not  be  back  before  dinner-time. 
Not  sorry  to  have  a little  time  to  myself,  I retired  to  my 
room,  and  threw  myself  down  on  a most  comfortable  sofa, 
excessively  well  satisfied  with  the  locality  and  well  dis- 
posed to  take  advantage  of  my  good  fortune.  The  little 
bed,  with  its  snow-white  curtains  and  gilded  canopy;  the 
brass  dogs  upon  the  hearth,  that  shone  like  gold;  the 
cherry-wood  table,  that  might  have  served  as  a mirror; 
the  modest  book-shelf,  with  its  pleasant  row  of  volumes; 
but,  better  than  all,  the  open  window,  from  which  I could 
see  for  miles  over  the  top  of  a dark  forest,  and  watch  the 
Meuse  as  it  came  and  went,  now  shining,  now  lost  in  the 
recesses  of  the  wood,  — all  charmed  me;  and  1 fully  con- 
fessed what  I have  had  very  frequently  to  repeat  in  life, 
that  “Arthur  O’Leary  was  born  under  a lucky  planet.” 


CHAPTER  XII. 


CHATEAU  LIFE. 

Stretched  upon  a large  old-fashioned  sofa,  where  a 
burgomaster  might  have  reclined  with  “ample  room  and 
verge  enough,”  in  all  the  easy  abandonment  of  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers;  the  cool  breeze  gently  wafting  the 
window-blind  to  and  fro,  and  tempering  the  lulling  sounds 
from  wood  and  water;  the  buzzing  of  the  summer  insects, 
and  the  far-off  carol  of  a peasant’s  song, — I fell  into  one 
of  those  delicious  sleeps  in  which  dreams  are  so  faintly 
marked  as  to  leave  us  no  disappointment  on  waking:  flitting 
shadow-like  before  the  mind,  they  live  only  in  a pleasant 
memory  of  something  vague  and  undefined,  and  impart  no 
touch  of  sorrow  for  expectations  unfulfilled,  for  hopes  that 
are  not  to  be  realized.  I would  that  my  dreams  might 
always  take  this  shape.  It  is  a sad  thing  when  they 
become  tangible;  when  features  and  looks,  eyes,  hands, 
words,  and  signs,  live  too  strongly  in  our  sleeping  minds, 
and  we  awake  to  the  cold  reality  of  our  daily  cares  and 
crosses,  tenfold  less  endurable  from  very  contrast.  No! 
give  me  rather  the  faint  and  waving  outline,  the  shadowy 
perception  of  pleasure,  than  the  vivid  picture,  to  end  only 
in  the  conviction  that  I am  but  Christopher  Sly  after  all; 
or  what  comes  pretty  much  to  the  same,  nothing  but  — 
Arthur  O’Leary. 

Still,  I would  not  have  you  deem  me  discontented  with 
my  lot;  far  from  it.  I chose  my  path  early  in  life,  and 
never  saw  reason  to  regret  the  choice.  Ilow  many  of  you 
can  say  as  much?  I felt  that  while  the  tender  ties  of  home 
and  family,  the  charities  that  grow  up  around  the  charmed 
circle  of  a wife  and  children,  are  the  great  prizes  of  life, 
there  are  also  a thousand  lesser  ones  in  the  wheel,  in  the 
kindly  sympathies  with  which  the  world  abounds;  that  to 
him  who  bears  no  ill-will  at  his  heart  — nay,  rather  loving 


CHATEAU  LIFE. 


211 


all  tilings  that  are  lovable,  with  warm  attachments  to  all 
who  have  been  kind  to  him,  with  strong  sources  of  happi- 
ness in  his  own  tranquil  thoughts  — the  wandering  life 
would  offer  many  pleasures. 

Most  men  live,  as  it  were,  with  one  story  of  their  lives, 
the  traits  of  childhood  maturing  into  manly  features;  their 
history  consists  of  the  development  of  early  character  in 
circumstances  of  good  or  evil  fortune.  They  fall  in  love, 
they  marry,  they  grow  old,  and  they  die,  — each  incident 
of  their  existence  bearing  on  that  before  and  that  after, 
like  link  upon  link  of  some  great  chain.  He,  however, 
who  throws  himself  like  a plank  upon  the  waters,  to  be 
washed  hither  and  thither  as  wind  or  tide  may  drive  him, 
has  a very  different  experience.  To  him  life  is  a succes- 
sion of  episodes,  each  perfect  in  itself;  the  world  is  but  a 
number  of  tableaux,  changing  with  climate  and  country, 
— his  sorrows  in  France  having  no  connection  with  his 
joys  in  Italy;  his  delights  in  Spain  living  apart  from  his 
griefs  on  the  Rhine.  The  past  throws  no  shadow  on  the 
future;  his  philosophy  is  to  make  the  most  of  the  present; 
and  he  never  forgets  La  Bruyere’s  maxim  “11  faut  rire 
avant  d’etre  heureux,  de  peur  de  mourir  sans  avoir  rid' 

Now,  if  you  don’t  like  my  philosophy,  set  it  down  as  a 
dream,  and  here  I am  awake  once  more. 

And  certainly  I claim  no  great  merit  on  the  score  of  my 
vigilance;  for  the  tantararara  that  awoke  me  would  have 
aroused  the  Seven  Sleepers  themselves.  Words  are  weak 
to  convey  the  most  distant  conception  of  the  noise;  it 
seemed  as  though  ten  thousand  peacocks  had  congregated 
beneath  my  window,  and  with  brazen  throats  were  bent  on 
giving  me  a hideous  concert;  the  fiend-chorus  in  “Robert 
le  Liable”  was  a psalm-tune  compared  to  it.  I started  up 
and  rushed  to  the  casement;  and  there,  in  the  lawn  be- 
neath, beheld  some  twenty  persons  costumed  in  hunting 
fashion,  their  horses  foaming  and  splashed,  their  coats 
stained  with  marks  of  the  forest.  But  the  uproar  was 
soon  comprehensible,  owing  to  some  half-dozen  of  the 
party  who  performed  on  that  most  diabolical  of  all  human 
inventions,  the  cor  de  chasse. 

Imagine,  if  you  can,  and  thank  your  stars  that  it  is  only 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


212 

a work  of  imagination,  some  twenty  feet  of  brass  pipe, 
worn  belt-fashion  over  one  shoulder  and  under  the  oppo- 
site arm,  one  end  of  the  aforesaid  tube  being  a mouth-piece, 
and  the  other  expanding  itself  into  a huge  trumpet-mouth ; 
then  conceive  a Fleming  — one  of  Rubens’s  cherubs,  im- 
mensely magnified,  and  decorated  with  a beard  and  mus- 
taches— blowing  into  this  with  all  the  force  of  his  lungs, 
perfectly  unmindful  of  the  five  other  performers,  who  at 
five  several  and  distinct  parts  of  the  melody  are  blasting 
away  also,  — treble  and  bass,  contralto  and  soprano,  shake 
and  sostenuto,  all  blending  into  one  crash  of  hideous  dis- 
cord, to  which  the  Scotch  bagpipe  in  a pibroch  is  a sooth- 
ing, melting  melody.  A deaf-and-dumb  institution  would 
capitulate  in  half  an  hour.  Truly,  the  results  of  a hunt- 
ing expedition  ought  to  be  of  the  most  satisfactory  kind, 
to  make  the  “ Retour  de  Chasse  ” (it  was  this  they  were 
blowing)  at  all  sufferable  to  those  who  were  not  engaged 
in  the  concert.  As  for  the  performers,  I can  readily  be- 
lieve they  never  heard  a note  of  the  whole. 

Even  Dutch  lungs  grow  tired  at  last.  Having  blown 
the  establishment  into  ecstasies,  and  myself  into  a furious 
headache,  they  gave  in;  and  now  an  awful  bell  announced 
the  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  While  I made  my  toilette,  I 
endeavored,  as  well  as  my  throbbing  temples  would  permit 
me,  to  fancy  the  host’s  personal  appearance,  and  to  con- 
jecture the  style  of  the  rest  of  the  party.  My  preparations 
over,  I took  a parting  look  in  the  glass,  as  if  to  guess  the 
probable  impression  I should  make  below  stairs,  and  sallied 
forth. 

Cautiously  stealing  along  over  the  well-waxed  floors, 
slippery  as  ice  itself,  I descended  the  broad  oak  stairs  into 
a great  hall,  wainscoted  with  dark  walnut  and  decorated 
with  antlers’  and  stags’  heads,  cross-bows  and  arquebuses, 
and,  to  my  shuddering  horror,  with  various  cors  de  chasse , 
now  happily,  however,  silent  on  the  walls.  I entered  the 
drawing-room,  conning  over  to  myself  a little  speech  in 
French,  and  preparing  myself  to  bow  for  the  next  fifteen 
minutes;  but,  to  my  surprise,  no  one  had  yet  appeared. 
All  were  still  occupied  in  dressing,  and  probably  taking 
some  well-merited  repose  after  their  exertions  on  the  wind 


CHATEAU  LIFE. 


213 


instruments.  I had  now  time  for  a survey  of  the  apart- 
ment; and,  generally  speaking,  a drawing-room  is  no  bad 
indication  of  the  tastes  and  temperament  of  the  owners  of 
the  establishment. 

The  practised  eye  speedily  detects  in  the  character  and 
arrangement  of  a chamber  something  of  its  occupant.  In 
some  houses,  the  absence  of  all  decoration,  the  simple  puri- 
tanism  of  the  furniture,  bespeaks  the  life  of  quiet  souls 
whose  days  are  as  devoid  of  luxury  as  their  dwellings. 
You  read  in  the  cold  gray  tints  the  formal  stiffness  and 
unrelieved  regularity  around  the  Quaker-like  flatness  of 
their  existence.  In  others,  there  is  an  air  of  ill-done  dis- 
play, a straining  after  effect,  which  shows  itself  in  costly 
but  ill-assorted  details,  a mingling  of  all  styles  and  eras 
without  repose  or  keeping.  The  bad  pretentious  pictures, 
the  faulty  bronzes,  meagre  casts  of  poor  originals,  the 
gaudy  china,  are  safe  warranty  for  the  vulgarity  of  their 
owners;  while  the  humble  parlor  of  a village  inn  can  be, 
as  I have  seen  it,  made  to  evidence  the  cultivated  tastes 
and  polished  habits  of  those  who  have  made  it  the  halting- 
place  of  a day.  We  might  go  back  and  trace  how  much  of 
our  knowledge  of  the  earliest  ages  is  derived  from  the  study 
of  the  interior  of  their  dwellings;  what  a rich  volume  of 
information  is  conveyed  in  a mosaic;  what  a treatise  does 
not  lie  in  a frescoed  wall! 

The  room  in  which  I now  found  n^self  was  a long,  and 
for  its  length  a narrow,  apartment;  a range  of  tall  win- 
dows, deeply  sunk  in  the  thick  wall,  occupied  one  side, 
opposite  to  which  was  a plain  wall  covered  with  pictures 
from  floor  to  cornice,  save  where,  at  a considerable  dis- 
tance from  one  another,  were  two  splendidly-carved  chim- 
ney-pieces of  black  oak,  one  representing  “The  Adoration 
of  the  Shepherds,”  and  the  other  “The  Miraculous  Draught 
of  Fishes,”  — the  latter  done  with  a relief,  a vigor,  and  a 
movement,  I have  never  seen  equalled.  Above  these  were 
some  armorial  trophies  of  an  early  date,  in  which,  among 
the  maces  and  battle-axes,  I could  recognize  some  weapons 
of  Eastern  origin,  which  by  the  family,  I learned,  were 
ascribed  to  the  periods  of  the  Crusades. 

Between  the  windows  were  placed  a succession  of  carved 


214 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


oak  cabinets  of  the  seventeenth  century,  — beautiful  speci- 
mens of  art,  and  for  all  their  quaintness  far  handsomer 
objects  of  furniture  than  our  modern  luxury  has  introduced 
among  us.  Japan  vases  of  dark  blue-and-green  were  tilled 
with  rare  flowers;  here  and  there  small  tables  of  costly 
buhl  invited  you  to  the  window  recesses,  where  the  downy 
ottomans,  pillowed  with  Flemish  luxury,  suggested  rest  if 
not  sleep.  The  pictures,  over  which  1 could  but  throw  a 
passing  glance,  were  all  by  Flemish  painters,  and  of  that 
character  which  so  essentially  displays  their  chief  merits 
of  richness  of  color  and  tone,  — Gerard  Dow  and  Ostade, 
Cuyp,  Van  der  Meer,  and  Terburg,  — those  admirable 
groupings  of  domestic  life,  where  the  nation  is,  as  it 
were,  miniatured  before  you;  that  perfection  of  domestic 
quiet,  which  bespeaks  an  heirloom  of  tranquillity  derived 
whole  centuries  back.  You  see  at  once,  in  those  dark 
brown  eyes  and  placid  features,  the  traits  that  have  taken 
ages  to  bring  to  such  perfection;  and  you  recognize  the 
origin  of  those  sturdy  burgomasters  and  bold  burghers, 
who  were  at  the  same  time  the  thriftiest  merchants  and 
the  haughtiest  princes  of  Europe. 

Suddenly,  and  when  I was  almost  on  my  knees  to 
examine  a picture  by  Mending,  the  door  opened,  and  a 
small,  sharp-looking  man,  dressed  in  the  last  extravagance 
of  Paris  mode,  resplendent  in  waistcoat  and  glisten- 
ing in  jewelry,  tripped  lightly  forward.  “Ah,  mi  Lor 
O’Leary!”  said  he,  advancing  towards  me  with  a bow 
and  a slide. 

It  was  no  time  to  discuss  pedigree;  so  gulping  the  pro- 
motion, I made  my  acknowledgments  as  best  I could;  and 
by  the  time  that  we  met,  which  on  a moderate  calculation 
might  have  been  two  minutes  after  he  entered,  we  shook 
hands  very  cordially,  and  looked  delighted  to  see  each 
other.  This  ceremony,  I repeat,  was  only  accomplished 
after  his  having  bowed  round  two  tables,  an  ottoman,  and 
an  oak  armoire , I having  performed  the  like  ceremony  be- 
hind a Chinese  screen,  and  very  nearly  over  a vase  of  the 
original  “green  dragon,”  which  actually  seemed  disposed 
to  spring  at  me  for  my  awkwardness. 

Before  my  astonishment  — shall  I add,  disappointment? 


CHATEAU  LIFE. 


215 


— had  subsided,  at  finding  that  the  diminutive,  over- 
dressed figure  before  me  was  the  representative  of  those 
bold  barons  I had  been  musing  over  (for  such  he  was), 
the  room  began  to  fill.  Portly  ladies  of  undefined  dates 
sailed  in  and  took  their  places,  stiff,  stately,  and  silent 
as  their  grandmothers  on  the  walls;  heavy-looking  gentle- 
men, with  unpronounceable  names,  bowed  and  wheeled 
and  bowed  again;  while  a buzz  of  “ votre  serviteur,’, 
Madame,  or  Monsieur,  swelled  and  sank  amid  the  mur- 
mur of  the  room,  with  the  scraping  of  feet  on  the  glazed 
parquet,  and  the  rustle  of  silk,  whose  plentitude  bespoke 
a day  when  silkworms  were  holiest. 

The  host  paraded  me  around  the  austere  circle,  where 
the  very  names  sounded  like  an  incantation;  and  the  old 
ladies  shook  their  bugles  and  agitated  their  fans  in  recog- 
nition of  my  acquaintance.  The  circumstances  of  my 
adventure  were  the  conversation  of  every  group;  and 
although,  I confess,  I could  not  help  feeling  that  even 
a small  spice  of  malice  might  have  found  food  for  laugh- 
ter in  the  absurdity  of  my  durance,  yet  not  one  there 
could  see  anything  in  the  whole  affair  save  a grave  case 
of  smuggled  tobacco,  and  a most  unwarrantable  exercise  of 
authority  on  the  part  of  the  cure  who  liberated  me.  In- 
deed, this  latter  seemed  to  gain  ground  so  rapidly,  that 
once  or  twice  I began  to  fear  they  might  remand  me  and 
sentence  me  to  another  night  in  the  air,  “till  justice  should 
be  satisfied.”  I did  the  worthy  Maire  de  Givet  foul  wrong, 
said  I to  myself ; these  people  here  are  not  a whit  better. 

The  company  continued  to  arrive  at  every  moment;  and 
now  I remarked  that  it  was  the  veteran  battalion  who  led 
the  march,  the  younger  members  of  the  household  only 
dropping  in  as  the  hour  grew  later.  Among  these  was  a 
pleasant  sprinkling  of  Frenchmen,  as  easily  recognizable 
among  Flemings  as  is  an  officer  of  the  Blues  from  one  of 
the  new  police;  a German  baron,  a very  portrait  of  his 
class,  fat,  heavy-browed,  sulky-looking,  but  in  reality  a 
good-hearted,  fine-tempered  fellow;  two  Americans;  an 
English  colonel,  with  his  daughters  twain;  and  a Danish 
charge  d'affaires, — the  minor  characters  being  what,  in 
dramatic  phrase,  are  called  qiremiers  and  premieres,  mean- 


216 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


ing  thereby  young  people  of  either  sex,  dressed  in  the 
latest  mode,  and  performing  the  part  of  lovers;  the  ladies, 
with  a moderate  share  of  good  looks,  being  perfect  in  the 
freshness  of  their  toilette  and  in  a certain  air  of  ease  and 
gracefulness  almost  universal  abroad;  the  men,  a strange 
mixture  of  silliness  and  savagery  (a  bad  cross),  half  hair- 
dresser, half  hero. 

Before  the  dinner  was  announced,  I had  time  to  perceive 
that  the  company  was  divided  into  two  different  and  very 
opposite  currents,  — one  party  consisting  of  the  old  Dutch 
or  Flemish  race,  quiet,  plodding,  peaceable  souls,  pretend- 
ing to  nothing  new,  enjoying  everything  old,  their  souvenirs 
referring  to  some  event  in  the  time  of  their  grandfathers; 
the  other  section  being  the  younger  portion,  who,  strongly 
imbued  with  French  notions  on  dress  and  English  on  sport- 
ing matters,  attempted  to  bring  [Newmarket  and  the  Boule- 
vards des  Italiens  into  the  heart  of  the  Ardennes. 

Between  the  two,  and  connecting  them  with  each  other, 
was  a species  of  pont  du  diable,  in  the  person  of  a little, 
dapper,  olive-complexioned  man  of  about  forty.  His  eyes 
were  black  as  jet,  but  with  an  expression  soft  and  subdued, 
save  at  moments  of  excitement,  when  they  flashed  like 
glow-worms;  his  plain  suit  of  black  with  deep  cambric 
ruffles,  his  silk  shorts  and  buckled  shoes,  had  in  them 
something  of  the  ecclesiastic;  and  so  it  was.  He  was  the 
Abbe  van  Praet,  the  cadet  of  an  ancient  Belgian  family,  a 
man  of  considerable  ability,  highly  informed  on  most  sub- 
jects; a linguist,  a musician,  a painter  of  no  small  pre- 
tensions, who  spent  his  life  in  the  far  niente  of  chateau 
existence,  — now  devising  a party  of  pleasure,  now  invent- 
ing a madrigal,  now  giving  directions  to  the  chef  how  to 
make  an  omelette  a la  cure,  now  stealing  noiselessly  along 
some  sheltered  walk  to  hear  some  fair  lady’s  secret  confi- 
dence; for  he  was  privy  counsellor  in  all  affairs  of  the 
heart,  and,  if  the  world  did  not  wrong  him,  occasionally 
pleaded  his  own  cause  when  no  other  petitioner  offered. 
I was  soon  struck  by  this  man,  and  by  the  tact  with  which, 
while  he  preserved  his  ascendency  over  the  minds  of  all, 
he  never  admitted  any  undue  familiarity,  yet  affected  all 
the  ease  and  insouciance  of  the  veriest  idler.  I was  flat- 


CHATEAU  LIFE. 


217 


tered,  also,  by  his  notice  of  me,  and  by  the  politeness  of 
his  invitation  to  sit  next  him  at  table. 

The  distinctions  I have  hinted  at  already  made  the 
dinner  conversation  a strange  medley  of  Flemish  history 
and  sporting  anecdotes;  of  reminiscences  of  the  times  of 
Maria  Theresa,  and  dissertations  on  weights  and  ages; 
of  the  genealogies  of  Flemish  families,  and  the  pedigrees 
of  English  race-horses.  The  young  English  ladies,  both 
pretty  and  delicate-looking  girls,  with  an  air  of  good  breed- 
ing and  tone  in  their  manner,  shocked  me  not  a little  by 
the  intimate  knowledge  they  displayed  on  all  matters 
of  the  turf  and  the  stable, — their  acquaintance  with  the 
details  of  hunting,  racing,  and  steeple-chasing,  seeming  to 
form  the  most  wonderful  attraction  to  the  mustached  counts 
and  whiskered  barons  who  listened  to  them.  The  colonel 
was  a fine,  mellow-looking  old  gentleman,  with  a white 
head  and  a red  nose,  and  with  that  species  of  placid 
expression  one  sees  in  the  people  who  perform  those  parts 
in  Vaudeville  theatres  called  jieres  nobles.  He  seemed, 
indeed,  as  if  he  had  been  daily  in  the  habit  of  bestowing 
a lovely  daughter  on  some  happy,  enraptured  lover,  and 
invoking  a blessing  on  their  heads ; there  was  a rich  unction 
in  his  voice,  an  almost  imperceptible  quaver,  that  made  it 
seem  kind  and  affectionate;  he  finished  his  shake  of  the 
hand  with  a little  parting  squeeze,  a kind  of  “one  cheer 
more,”  as  they  say  now-a-days,  when  some  misguided 
admirer  calls  upon  a meeting  for  enthusiasm  they  don’t 
feel.  The  Americans  were  (and  one  description  will  serve 
for  both,  so  like  were  they)  sallow,  high-boned,  silent  men, 
with  a species  of  quiet  caution  in  their  manner,  as  if  they 
were  learning,  but  had  not  yet  completed,  a European 
education  as  to  habits  and  customs,  and  were  studiously 
careful  not  to  commit  any  solecisms  which  might  betray 
their  country. 

As  dinner  proceeded,  the  sporting  characters  carried 
the  day.  The  ouverture  de  chnsse,  which  was  to  take 
place  the  following  morning,  was  an  all-engrossing  topic, 
and  I found  myself  established  as  judge  on  a hundred 
points  of  English  jockey  etiquette,  of  which  as  my  igno- 
rance was  complete  I suffered  grievously  in  the  estiina- 


218 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


tion  of  the  company,  and,  when  referred  to,  could  neither 
apportion  the  weight  to  age,  nor  even  tell  the  number  of 
yards  in  a “distance.”  It  was,  however,  decreed  that  I 
should  ride  the  next  day,  — the  host  had  the  “ very  horse 
to  suit  me;”  and,  as  the  able  whispered  me  to  consent,  I 
acceded  at  once  to  the  arrangement. 

When  we  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room,  Colonel  Mud- 
dleton  came  towards  me  with  an  easy  smile  and  an  out- 
stretched snuff-box,  both  in  such  perfect  keeping:  the 
action  was  a finished  thing. 

“Any  relation,  may  I ask,  of  a very  old  friend  and 
brother-officer  of  mine,  General  Mark  O’Leary,  who  was 
killed  in  Canada?”  said  he. 

“A  very  distant  one  only,”  replied  I. 

“A  capital  fellow,  brave  as  a lion,  and  pleasant.  By 
Jove,  I never  met  the  like  of  him!  What  became  of  his 
Irish  property?  — he  was  never  married,  I think?” 

“No,  he  died  a bachelor,  and  left  his  estates  to  my 
uncle;  they  had  met  once  by  accident,  and  took  a liking 
to  each  other.” 

“And  so  your  uncle  has  them  now? ” 

“No;  my  uncle  died  since.  They  came  into  my  posses- 
sion some  two  or  three  years  ago.” 

“Eh  — ah  — upon  my  life!”  said  he,  with  something  of 
surprise  in  his  manner;  and  then,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  ex- 
clamation, and  with  a much  more  cordial  vein  than  at  first, 
he  resinned : “ What  a piece  of  unlooked-for  good  fortune 
to  be  sure!  Only  think  of  my  finding  my  old  friend 
Mark’s  nephew!” 

“Not  his  nephew.  I was  only  — ” 

“Never  mind,  never  mind;  he  was  kind  of  an  uncle, 
you  know, — any  man  might  be  proud  of  him.  What  a 
glorious  fellow  ! — full  of  fun,  full  of  spirit  and  animation. 
Ah,  just  like  all  your  countrymen!  I’ve  a little  Irish 
blood  in  my  veins  myself;  my  mother  was  an  O’Flaherty 
or  an  O’Neil,  or  something  of  that  sort;  and  there ’s  Laura 
— }7ou  don’t  know  my  daughter?” 

“I  have  not  the  honor.” 

“Come  along,  and  I’ll  introduce  you  to  her:  a little 
reserved  or  so,”  said  he,  in  a whisper,  as  if  to  give  me  the 


CHATEAU  LIFE. 


219 


carte  du pays,  — “rather  cold,  you  know,  to  strangers;  but 
when  she  hears  you  are  the  nephew  of  my  old  friend  Mark 
— Mark  and  I were  like  brothers.  Laura,  my  love,”  said 
he,  tapping  the  young  lady  on  her  white  shoulder  as  she 
stood  with  her  back  towards  us;  “Laura,  dear  — the  son  of 
my  oldest  friend  in  the  world,  General  O’Leary.” 

The  young  lady  turned  quickly  round,  and,  as  she  drew 
herself  up  somewhat  haughtily,  dropped  me  a low  courtesy, 
and  then  resumed  her  conversation  with  a very  much  whis- 
kered gentleman  near.  The  colonel  seemed,  despite  all  his 
endeavors  to  overcome  it,  rather  put  out  by  his  daughter’s 
hauteur  to  the  son  of  his  old  friend;  and  what  he  would 
have  said  or  done  I know  not,  but  the  able  came  suddenly 
up,  and  with  a card  invited  me  to  join  a party  at  whist. 
The  moment  was  so  awkward  for  all,  that  I would  have 
accepted  an  invitation  even  to  ecarte  to  escape  from  the 
difficulty,  and  I followed  him  into  a small  boudoir  where 
two  ladies  were  awaiting  us.  I had  just  time  to  see  that 
they  were  both  pleasing-looking,  and  of  that  time  of  life 
when  women,  without  forfeiting  any  of  the  attractions  of 
youth,  are  much  more  disposed  to  please  by  the  attractions 
of  manner  and  esprit  than  by  mere  beauty,  when  we  sat 
down  to  our  game.  La  Baronne  de  Meer,  my  partner,  was 
the  younger  and  the  prettier  of  the  two;  she  was  one  of 
those  Flemings  into  whose  families  the  race  of  Spain 
poured  the  warm  current  of  southern  blood,  and  gave 
them  the  dark  eye  and  the  olive  skin,  the  graceful  figure 
and  the  elastic  step,  so  characteristic  of  their  nation. 

“ A la  bonne  lieure,”  said  she,  smiling;  “ have  we  rescued 
one  from  the  enchantress?” 

“Yes,”  replied  the  abbe , with  an  affected  gravity;  “in 
another  moment  he  was  lost.” 

“If  you  mean  me,”  said  I,  laughing,  “I  assure  you  I ran 
no  danger  at  all;  for  whatever  the  young  lady’s  glances 
may  portend,  she  seemed  very  much  indisposed  to  bestow  a 
second  on  me.” 

The  game  proceeded  with  its  running  fire  of  chit-chat, 
from  which  I could  gather  that  Mademoiselle  Laura  was  a 
most  established  man-killer,  no  one  ever  escaping  her 
fascinations  save  when  by  some  strange  fatality  they  pre- 


220 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


f erred  her  sister  Julia,  whose  style  was,  to  use  the  abbess 
phrase,  her  sister’s  “diluted.”  There  was  a tone  of  pique 
in  the  way  the  ladies  criticised  the  colonel’s  daughters, 
which  I have  often  remarked  in  those  who,  accustomed 
to  the  attentions  of  men  themselves,  without  any  unusual 
effort  to  please  on  their  part  are  doubly  annoyed  when 
they  perceive  a rival  making  more  than  ordinary  endeavors 
to  attract  admirers.  They  feel  as  a capitalist  would,  when 
another  millionnaire  offers  money  at  a lower  rate  of  interest. 
It  is,  as  it  were,  a breach  of  conventional  etiquette,  and 
never  escapes  being  severely  criticised. 

As  for  me,  I had  no  personal  feeling  at  stake,  and  looked 
on  at  the  game  of  all  parties  with  much  amusement. 

“Where  is  the  Comte  d’Espagne  to-night?”  said  the 
baronne  to  the  abbe.  “Has  he  been  false?” 

“Not  at  all;  he  was  singing  with  mademoiselle  when  I 
was  in  the  salon.” 

“You  ’ll  have  a dreadful  rival  there,  Monsieur  O’Leary,” 
said  she,  laughingly;  “he  is  the  most  celebrated  swords- 
man and  the  best  shot  in  Flanders.” 

“It  is  likely  he  may  rust  his  weapons  if  he  have  no 
opportunity  for  their  exercise  till  I give  it,”  said  I. 

“Don’t  you  admire  her,  then?”  said  she. 

“The  lady  is  very  pretty,  indeed,”  said  I. 

“The  heart  led,”  interrupted  the  abbe , suddenly,  as  he 
touched  my  foot  beneath  the  table,  — “play  a heart.” 

Close  beside  my  chair,  and  leaning  over  my  cards,  stood 
Mademoiselle  Laura  herself  at  the  moment. 

“You  have  no  heart,”  said  she,  in  English,  and  with  a 
singular  expression  on  the  words,  while  her  downcast  eye 
shot  a glance  — one  glance  — through  me. 

“Yes,  but  I have  though,”  said  I,  discovering  a card  that 
lay  concealed  behind  another;  “it  only  requires  a little 
looking  for.” 

“Not  worth  the  trouble,  perhaps,”  said  she,  with  a toss 
of  her  head,  as  I threw  the  deuce  upon  the  table;  and 
before  I could  reply  she  was  gone. 

“I  think  her  much  prettier  when  she  looks  saucy,”  said 
the  baronne,  as  if  to  imply  that  the  air  of  pique  assumed 
was  a mere  piece  of  acting  got  up  for  effect. 


CHATEAU  LIFE. 


221 


I see  it  all,  said  I to  myself.  Foreign  women  can  never 
forgive  English  for  being  so  much  their  superior  in  beauty 
and  loveliness.  Meanwhile  our  game  came  to  a close,  and 
we  gathered  around  the  buffet. 

There  we  found  the  old  colonel,  with  a large  silver 
tankard  of  mulled  wine,  holding  forth  over  some  cam- 
paigning exploit,  to  which  no  one  listened  for  more  than 
a second  or  two,  — and  thus  the  whole  room  became  joint- 
stock  hearers  of  his-story.  Laura  stood  eating  her  ice  with 
the  Comte  d’Espagne,  the  black-whiskered  cavalier  already 
mentioned,  beside  her.  The  Americans  were  prosing  away 
about  Jefferson  and  Adams;  the  Belgians  talked  agricul- 
ture and  genealogy;  and  the  French,  collecting  into  a 
group  of  their  own,  in  which  nearly  all  the  pretty  women 
joined,  discoursed  the  ballet,  the  Chambre,  the  court,  the 
coulisses,  the  last  mode,  and  the  last  murder,  and  all  in 
the  same  mirthful  and  lively  tone.  And  truly,  let  people 
condemn  as  they  will  this  superficial  style  of  conversation, 
there  is  none  equal  to  it;  it  avoids  the  prosaic  flatness  of 
German,  and  the  monotonous  pertinacity  of  English,  which 
seems  more  to  partake  of  the  nature  of  discussion  than  dia- 
logue. French  chit-chat  takes  a wider  range,  — anecdotic, 
illustrative,  and  discursive  by  turns ; it  deems  nothing  too 
light,  nothing  too  weighty  for  its  subject;  it  is  a gay 
butterfly,  now  floating  with  gilded  wings  above  you,  now 
tremulously  perched  upon  a leaf  below,  now  sparkling  in 
the  sunbeam,  now  loitering  in  the  shade;  embodying  not 
only  thought,  but  expression,  it  charms  by  its  style  as  well 
as  by  its  matter.  The  language,  too,  suggests  shades  and 
nuances  of  coloring  that  exist  not  in  other  tongues;  you 
can  give  to  your  canvas  the  precise  tint  you  wish,  for  when 
mystery  would  prove  a merit,  the  equivoque  is  there  ready 
to  your  hand,  — meaning  so  much,  yet  asserting  so  little. 
For  my  part  I should  make  my  will  in  English;  but  I’d 
rather  make  love  in  French. 

While  thus  digressing,  I have  forgotten  to  mention  that 
people  are  running  back  and  forth  with  bedroom  candles; 
there  is  a confused  hum  of  bonsoir  on  every  side;  and, 
with  many  a hope  of  a fine  day  for  the  morrow,  we  sepa- 
rate for  the  night. 


222 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


I lay  awake  some  hours  thinking  of  Laura,  and  then  of 
the  baronne, — they  were  both  arch  ones;  the  able  too 
crossed  my  thoughts,  and  once  or  twice  the  old  colonel’s 
roguish  leer;  but  I slept  soundly  for  all  that,  and  did  not 
wake  till  eight  o’clock  the  next  morning.  The  silence  of 
the  house  struck  me  forcibly  as  I rubbed  my  eyes  and  looked 
about.  Hang  it,  thought  I,  have  they  gone  off  to  the  chasse 
without  me?  I surely  could  never  have  slept  through  the 
uproar  of  their  trumpets.  I drew  aside  the  window  cur- 
tains, and  the  mystery  was  solved:  such  rain  never  fell 
before;  the  clouds,  actually  touching  the  tops  of  the  beech- 
trees,  seemed  to  ooze  and  squash  like  squeezed  sponges. 
The  torrent  came  down  in  that  splashing  stroke  as  if  some 
force  behind  momentarily  propelled  it  stronger;  and  the 
long-parched  ground  seethed  and  smoked  like  a heated 
caldron. 

Pleasant  this,  was  reflection  number  one,  as  I endeav- 
ored to  peer  through  the  mist,  and  beheld  a haze  of  weep- 
ing foliage,  ■ — pleasant  to  be  immured  here  during  Heaven 
knows  how  many  days,  without  the  power  to  escape. 
Lucky  fellow,  Arthur,  was  my  second  thought;  capital 
quarters  you  have  fallen  into.  Better  far  the  snug  com- 
forts of  a Flemish  chateau  than  the  chances  of  a wayside 
inn.  Besides,  here  is  a goodly  company  met  together; 
there  will  needs  be  pleasant  people  among  them.  I wish 
it  may  rain  these  three  weeks;  chateau  life  is  the  very 
thing  I ’m  curious  about.  How  do  they  get  through  the 
day?  There’s  no  “Times”  in  Flanders;  no  one  cares  a 
farthing  about  who ’s  in  and  who ’s  out.  There ’s  no 
Derby,  no  trials  for  murder.  What  can  they  do?  was 
the  question  I put  to  myself  a dozen  times  over.  No 
matter,  I have  abundant  occupation ; my  journal  has  never 
been  posted  up  since  — since  — alas,  I can  scarcely  tell ! 

It  might  be  from  reflections  like  these,  or  perhaps 
because  I was  less  of  a sportsman  than  my  companions, 
but  certainly,  whatever  the  cause,  I bore  up  against  the 
disappointment  of  the  weather  with  far  more  philosophy 
than  they,  and  dispersed  a sack  of  proverbs  about  patience, 
hope,  equanimity,  and  contentment  which  Sanclio  Lanza 
himself  might  have  envied,  until  at  length  no  one  ventured 


CHATEAU  LIFE. 


223 


a malediction  on  the  day  in  my  presence,  for  fear  of  elicit- 
ing a hailstorm  of  moral  reflections.  The  company  dropped 
down  to  breakfast  by  detachments,  the  elated  looks  and 
flashing  eyes  of  the  night  before  saddened  and  overcast 
at  the  unexpected  change.  Even  the  elders  of  the  party 
seemed  discontented;  and  except  myself  and  an  old  gentle- 
man with  the  gout,  who  took  an  airing  about  the  hall  and 
the  drawing-room  in  a wheel-chair,  all  seemed  miserable. 

Each  window  had  its  occupant  posted  against  the  glass, 
vainly  endeavoring  to  catch  one  bit  of  blue  amid  the  dreary 
waste  of  cloud.  A little  group,  sulky  and  silent,  were 
gathered  around  the  weather-glass;  a literary  inquirer  sat 
down  to  con  over  the  predictions  of  the  almanac.  You 
might  as  well  have  looked  for  sociability  among  the  inhab- 
itants of  a private  madhouse  as  here.  The  weather  was 
cursed  in  every  language  from  Cherokee  to  Sanscrit;  all 
agreed  that  no  country  had  such  an  abominable  climate. 
The  Yankee  praised  the  summers  of  America,  the  Dane 
upheld  his  own,  and  I took  a patriotic  turn,  and  vowed  I 
had  never  seen  such  rain  in  Ireland.  The  master  of  the 
house  could  scarcely  show  himself  amid  this  torrent  of 
abusive  criticism ; and  when  he  did  by  chance  appear,  he 
looked  as  much  ashamed  as  though  he  himself  had  pulled 
out  the  spigot,  and  deluged  the  whole  land  with  water. 

Meanwhile,  none  of  those  I looked  for  appeared.  Neither 
the  colonel’s  daughter  nor  the  baronne  came  down ; the  able, 
too,  did  not  descend  to  the  breakfast-room,  and  I was  con- 
siderably puzzled  and  put  out  by  the  disappointment. 

After  then  enduring  a good  hour's  boredom  from  the  old 
colonel  on  the  subject  of  my  late  lamented  parent,  Mark 
O’Leary;  after  submitting  to  a severe  cross-examination 
from  the  Yankee  gentleman  as  to  the  reason  of  my  com- 
ing abroad,  what  property  and  expectations  I had,  my  age 
and  birth-place,  what  my  mother  died  of,  and  whether  I 
did  not  feel  very  miserable  from  the  abject  slavery  of  sub- 
mitting to  an  English  government, — I escaped  into  the 
library,  a fine,  comfortable  old  room,  which  I rightly  con- 
jectured I should  find  unoccupied. 

Selecting  a quaint-looking  quarto  with  some  curious 
illuminated  pages  for  my  companion,  I drew  a great  deep 


224 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


leather  chair  into  a recess  of  one  window,  and  hugged 
myself  in  my  solitude.  While  I listlessly  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  my  book,  or  sat  lost  in  reflection,  time  crept 
over,  and  I heard  the  great  clock  of  the  chateau  strike 
three;  at  the  same  moment  a hand  fell  lightly  on  my 
shoulder;  I turned  about,  — it  was  the  abbe. 

“I  half  suspected  I should  find  you  here,”  said  he.  “Do 
I disturb  you,  or  may  I keep  you  company?” 

“But  too  happy,”  I replied,  “if  you  ’ll  do  me  the  favor.” 
“I  thought,”  said  he,  as  he  drew  a chair  opposite  to  me, 
— “I  thought  you  ’d  scarcely  play  dominos  all  day,  or  dis- 
cuss waistcoats.” 

“ In  truth,  I was  scarcely  better  employed ; this  old  vol- 
ume here  which  I took  down  for  its  plates  — ” 

“ Mafoi,  a most  interesting  one;  it  is  Guchardi’s  { History 
of  Mary  of  Burgundy.’  Those  quaint  old  processions, those 
venerable  councils,  are  admirably  depicted.  What  rich 
stores  for  a romance  writer  lie  in  the  details  of  these  old 
books!  Their  accuracy  as  to  costume,  the  little  traits  of 
everyday  life,  are  so  naively  told;  every  little  domestic 
incident  is  so  full  of  its  characteristic  era.  I wonder, 
when  the  springs  are  so  accessible,  men  do  not  draw  more 
frequently  from  them,  and  more  purely  also.” 

“You  forget  Scott.” 

“No;  far  from  it.  He  is  the  great  exception;  and  from 
his  intimate  acquaintance  with  this  class  of  reading  is  he 
so  immeasurably  superior  to  all  other  writers  of  his  style. 
Not  merely  tinctured,  but  deeply  imbued  with  the  habits 
of  the  feudal  period,  the  traits  by  which  others  attempt  to 
paint  the  time  with  him  were  mere  accessories  in  the  pic- 
ture; costume  and  architecture  he  used  to  heighten,  not  to 
convey  his  impressions;  and  while  no  one  knew  better 
every  minute  particular  of  dress  or  arms  that  betokened 
a period  or  a class,  none  more  sparingly  used  such  aid. 
He  felt  the  same  delicacy  certain  ancient  artists  did  as  to 
the  introduction  of  pure  white  into  their  pictures,  deeming 
such  an  unfair  exercise  of  skill.  But  why  venture  to  speak 
of  your  countryman  to  you,  save  that  genius  is  above  nation- 
ality, and  Scott’s  novels  at  least  are  European.” 

After  chatting  for  some  time  longer,  and  feeling  struck 


CHATEAU  LIFE. 


225 


with  the  extent  and  variety  of  the  abbe's  attainments,  I 
half  dropped  a hint  expressive  of  my  surprise  that  one  so 
cultivated  as  he  was  could  apparently  so  readily  comply 
with  the  monotonous  routine  of  a chateau  life,  and  the 
little  prospect  it  afforded  of  his  meeting  congenial  asso- 
ciates. Far  from  feeling  offended  at  the  liberty  of  my 
remark,  he  replied  at  once  with  a smile,  — 

“You  are  wrong  there,  and  the  error  is  a common  one; 
but  when  you  have  seen  more  of  life,  you  will  learn  that 
a man’s  own  resources  are  the  only  real  gratifications  he 
can  count  upon.  Society,  like  a field-day,  may  offer  the 
occasion  to  display  your  troops  and  put  them  through  their 
manoeuvres;  but,  believe  me,  it  is  a rare  and  a lucky  day 
when  you  go  back  richer  by  one  recruit,  and  the  chance  is 
that  even  he  is  a cripple,  and  must  be  sent  about  his  busi- 
ness. People,  too,  will  tell  you  much  of  the  advantage  to 
be  derived  from  associating  with  men  of  distinguished  and 
gifted  minds.  I have  seen  something  of  such  in  my  time, 
and  give  little  credit  to  the  theory.  You  might  as  well 
hope  to  obtain  credit  for  a thousand  pounds  because  you 
took  off  your  hat  to  a banker.” 

The  abbe  paused  after  this,  and  seemed  to  be  occupied 
with  his  own  thoughts;  then  raising  his  head  suddenly,  he 
said,  — 

“As  to  happiness,  believe  me,  it  lives  only  in  the 
extremes  of  perfect  vacuity  or  true  genius.  Yrour  clever 
fellow,  with  a vivid  fancy  and  glowing  imagination,  strong 
feeling  and  strong  power  of  expression,  has  no  chance  of 
it.  The  excitement  he  lives  in  is  alone  a bar  to  the  tran- 
quil character  of  thought  necessary  to  happiness;  and  how- 
ever cold  a man  may  feel,  he  should  never  warm  himself 
through  a burning  glass.” 

There  seemed  through  all  he  said  something  like  a retro- 
spective tone,  as  though  he  were  rather  giving  the  fruit  of 
past  personal  experiences  than  merely  speculating  on  the 
future;  and  I could  not  help  throwing  out  a hint  to  this 
purport. 

“Perhaps  you  are  right,”  said  he;  then,  after  a long 
silence,  he  added:  “It  is  a fortunate  thing  after  all  when 
the  faults  of  a man’s  temperament  are  the  source  of  some 

13 


226 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


disappointment  in  early  life,  because  then  they  rarely 
endanger  his  subsequent  career.  Let  him  only  escape  the 
just  punishment,  whatever  it  be,  and  the  chances  are  that 
they  embitter  every  hour  of  his  after-life.  His  whole  care 
and  study  being  not  correction,  but  concealment,  he  lives  a 
life  of  daily  duplicity;  the  fear  of  detection  is  over  him  at 
every  step  he  takes ; and  he  plays  a part  so  constantly  that 
he  loses  all  real  character  at  last  in  the  frequency  of  dis- 
simulation. Shall  I tell  you  a little  incident  with  which 
I became  acquainted  in  early  life.  If  you  have  nothing 
better  to  do,  it  may  while  away  the  hours  before  dinner.” 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  ABBA’S  STORY. 

“Without  tiring  you  with  any  irrelevant  details  of  the 
family  and  relatives  of  my  hero,  if  I dare  call  him  such,  I 
may  mention  that  he  was  the  second  son  of  an  old  Belgian 
family  of  some  rank  and  wealth,  and  that  in  accordance 
with  the  habits  of  his  house  he  was  educated  for  the  career 
of  diplomacy.  For  this  purpose,  a life  of  travel  was  deemed 
the  best  preparation,  — foreign  languages  being  the  chief 
requisite,  with  such  insight  into  history,  national  law,  and 
national  usages  as  any  young  man  with  moderate  capacity 
and  assiduity  can  master  in  three  or  four  years. 

“The  chief  of  the  Dutch  mission  at  Frankfort  was  an 
old  diplomate  of  some  distinction,  but  who,  had  it  not 
been  from  causes  purely  personal  towards  the  king,  would 
not  have  quitted  The  Hague  for  any  embassy  whatever.  He 
was  a widower,  with  an  only  daughter,  — one  of  those  true 
types  of  Dutch  beauty  which  Terburg  was  so  fond  of  paint- 
ing. There  are  people  who  can  see  nothing  but  vulgarity 
in  the  class  of  features  I speak  of,  and  yet  nothing  in 
reality  is  farther  from  it.  Hers  was  a mild,  placid  face,  a 
wide,  candid-looking  forehead,  down  either  side  of  which 
two  braids  of  sunny  brown  hair  fell;  her  skin,  fair  as 
alabaster,  had  the  least  tinge  of  color,  but  her  lips  were 
full,  and  of  a violet  hue,  that  gave  a character  of  brilliancy 
to  the  whole  countenance;  her  figure  inclined  to  embon- 
point, was  exquisitely  moulded,  and  in  her  walk  there 
appeared  the  composed  and  resolute  carriage  of  one  whose 
temperament,  however  mild  and  unruffled,  was  still  based 
on  principles  too  strong  to  be  shaken.  She  was  indeed  a 
perfect  specimen  of  her  nation,  embodying  in  her  character 
the  thrift,  the  propriety,  the  high  sense  of  honor,  the  rigid 
habits  of  order,  so  eminently  Dutch;  but  withal  there  ran 


228 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


through  her  nature  the  golden  thread  of  romance,  and  be- 
neath that  mild  eyebrow  there  were  the  thoughts  and  hopes 
of  a highly  imaginative  mind. 

“The  mission  consisted  of  an  old  secretary  of  embassy, 
Van  Dohein,  a veteran  diplomate  of  some  sixty  years,  and 
Edward  ISTorvins,  the  youth  I speak  of.  Such  was  the 
family  party,  for  you  are  aware  that  they  all  lived  in  the 
same  house,  and  dined  together  every  day,  — the  attaches 
of  the  mission  being  specially  intrusted  to  the  care  and 
attention  of  the  head  of  the  mission,  as  if  they  were  his 
own  children.  ISTorvins  soon  fell  in  love  with  the  pretty 
Marguerite.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?  They  were  con- 
stantly together;  he  was  her  companion  at  home,  her 
attendant  at  every  ball;  they  rode  out  together,  walked, 
read,  drew,  and  sang  together,  and  in  fact  very  soon 
became  inseparable.  In  all  this  there  was  nothing  which 
gave  rise  to  remark.  The  intimate  habits  of  a mission 
permitted  such;  and  as  her  father,  deeply  immersed  in 
affairs  of  diplomacy,  had  no  time  to  busy  himself  about 
them,  no  one  else  did.  The  secretary  had  followed  the 
same  course  at  every  mission  for  the  first  ten  years  of  his 
career,  and  only  deemed  it  the  ordinary  routine  of  an 
attache'1  s life. 

“ Such  then  was  the  pleasant  current  of  their  lives,  when 
an  event  occurred  which  was  to  disturb  its  even  flow,  — 
ay,  and  alter  the  channel  forever.  A despatch  arrived 
one  morning  at  the  mission,  informing  them  that  a cer- 
tain Monsieur  van  Halsdt,  a son  of  one  of  the  ministers, 
who  had  lately  committed  some  breach  of  discipline  in  a 
cavalry  regiment,  was  about  to  be  attached  to  the  mis- 
sion. Never  was  such  a shock  as  this  gave  Marguerite 
and  her  lover.  To  her  the  idea  of  associating  with  a wild, 
unruly  character  like  this  was  insupportable.  To  him  it 
was  misery;  he  saw  at  once  all  his  daily  intimacy  with 
her  interrupted;  he  perceived  how  their  former  habits 
could  no  longer  be  followed,  — that  with  this  arrival  must 
cease  the  companionship  that  made  him  the  happiest  of 
men.  Even  the  baron  himself  was  indignant  at  the 
arrangement  to  saddle  him  with  a vauvien  to  be  re- 
claimed; but  then  he  was  the  minister’s  son.  The  king 


THE  ABBA’S  STORY.  229 

himself  had  signed  the  appointment,  and  there  was  no 
help  for  it. 

“It  was  indeed  with  anything  but  feelings  of  welcome  that 
they  awaited  the  coming  of  the  new  guest.  Even  in  the 
short  interval  between  his  appointment  and  his  coming,  a 
hundred  rumors  reached  them  of  his  numerous  scrapes  and 
adventures,  his  duels,  his  debts,  his  gambling,  and  his  love 
exploits.  All  of  course  were  duly  magnified.  Poor  Mar- 
guerite felt  as  though  an  imp  of  Satan  was  about  to  pay 
them  a visit,  and  Norvins  dreaded  him  with  a fear  that 
partook  of  a presentiment. 

“ The  day  came,  and  the  dinner-hour,  in  respect  for  the 
son  of  the  great  man,  was  delayed  twenty  minutes  in 
expectation  of  his  coming;  and  they  went  to  table  at  last 
without  him,  silent  and  sad, — the  baron,  annoyed  at  the 
loss  of  dignity  he  should  sustain  by  a piece  of  politeness 
exercised  without  result;  the  secretary,  fretting  over  the 
entrees  that  were  burned ; Marguerite  and  Edward,  mourn- 
ing over  happiness  never  to  return.  Suddenly  a caleche 
drove  into  the  court  at  full  gallop,  the  steps  rattled,  and  a 
figure  wrapped  in  a cloak  sprang  out.  Before  the  first 
surprise  permitted  them  to  speak,  the  door  of  the  salle 
opened,  and  he  appeared. 

“It  would,  I confess,  have  been  a difficult  matter  to  fix 
on  that  precise  character  of  looks  and  appearances  which 
might  have  pleased  all  the  party.  Whatever  were  the 
sentiments  of  others  I know  not,  but  Norvins’s  wishes 
would  have  inclined  to  see  him  short  and  ill-looking,  rude 
in  speech  and  gesture,  — in  a word,  as  repulsive  as  possi- 
ble. It  is  indeed  a strange  thing,  — you  must  have  re- 
marked it,  I ’m  certain,  — that  the  disappointment  we  feel 
at  finding  people  we  desire  to  like  inferior  to  our  own  con- 
ceptions of  them,  is  not  one-half  so  great  as  is  our  chagrin 
at  discovering  those  we  are  determined  to  dislike  very 
different  from  our  preconceived  notions,  with  few  or  none 
of  the  features  we  were  prepared  to  find  fault  with,  and, 
in  fact,  altogether  unlike  the  bugbear  we  had  created  for 
ourselves.  One  would  suppose  that  such  a revulsion  in 
feeling  would  be  pleasurable  rather  than  otherwise.  Not 
so,  however;  a sense  of  our  own  injustice  adds  poignancy 


230 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


to  our  previous  prejudice,  and  we  dislike  the  object  only 
the  more  for  lowering  us  in  our  own  esteem. 

“ Van  Halsdt  was  well  calculated  to  illustrate  my  theory. 
He  was  tall  and  well  made;  his  face,  dark  as  a Spaniard’s 
(his  mother  was  descended  from  a Catalonian  family),  was 
manly  looking  and  frank,  at  once  indicating  openness  of 
temperament,  and  a dash  of  heroic  daring  that  would  like 
danger  for  itself  alone;  his  carriage  had  the  easy  freedom 
of  a soldier,  without  anything  bordering  on  coarseness  or 
effrontery.  Advancing  with  a quiet  bow,  he  tendered  his 
apologies  for  being  late,  rather  as  a matter  he  owed  to 
himself,  to  excuse  his  want  of  punctuality,  than  from  any 
sense  of  inconvenience  to  others,  and  ascribed  the  delay 
to  the  difficulty  of  finding  post-horses.  ‘ While  waiting, 
therefore,’  said  he,  ‘ I resolved  to  economize  time,  and  so 
dressed  for  dinner  at  the  last  stage.’ 

“ This  apology  at  least  showed  a desire  on  his  part  to  be 
in  time,  and  at  once  disposed  the  secretary  in  his  favor. 
The  baron  himself  spoke  little;  and  as  for  Marguerite,  she 
never  opened  her  lips  to  him  the  whole  time  of  dinner; 
and  Norvins  could  barely  get  out  the  few  common-places 
of  table,  and  sat  eying  him  from  time  to  time  with  an 
increasing  dislike. 

“Van  Halsdt  could  not  help  feeling  that  his  reception 
was  of  the  coldest;  yet  either  perfectly  indifferent  to  the 
fact,  or  resolved  to  overcome  their  impressions  against 
him,  he  talked  away  unceasingly  of  everything  he  could 
think  of, — the  dinners  at  court,  the  theatres,  the  diplo- 
matic soirees,  the  news  from  foreign  countries,  all  of  which 
he  spoke  of  with  knowledge  and  intimacy.  Yet  nothing 
could  he  extract  in  return.  The  old  baron  retired,  as  was 
his  wont,  immediately  after  dinner;  the  secretary  dropped 
off  soon  after;  Marguerite  went  to  take  her  evening  drive 
on  the  boulevards;  and  Norvins  was  left  alone  with  his 
new  comrade.  At  first  he  was  going  to  pretend  an  engage- 
ment. Then  the  awkwardness  of  the  moment  came  forci- 
bly before  him,  and  lie  sat  still,  silent  and  confused. 

“‘Any  wine  in  that  decanter?’  said  Van  Halsdt,  with  a 
short  abrupt  tone,  as  he  pointed  to  the  bottle  beside  him. 

‘ Pray  pass  it  over  here.  I have  only  drunk  three  glasses. 


THE  ABBfi’S  STORY. 


231 


T shall  be  better  aware  to-morrow  how  soon  your  party 
breaks  up  here.’ 

Yes,’  said  Edward,  timidly,  and  not  well  knowing 
what  to  say.  ‘ The  baron  retires  to  his  study  every  even- 
ing at  seven.’ 

“‘With  all  my  heart,’  said  he,  gayly;  ‘at  six,  if  he 
prefer  it,  and  he  may  even  take  the  old  secretary  with 
him.  But  the  mademoiselle,  shall  we  see  any  more  of 
her  during  the  evening?  Is  there  no  salon?  Eh,  what 
do  you  do  after  dinner?  ’ 

“ ‘ Why,  sometimes  we  drive,  or  we  walk  out  on  the 
boulevards;  the  other  ministers  receive  once  or  twice  a 
week,  and  then  there ’s  the  opera.’ 

“‘Devilishly  slow  you  must  find  all  this,’  said  Van 
Halsdt,  filling  a bumper,  and  taking  it  off  at  a draught. 
‘Are  you  long  here?’ 

“‘  Only  three  months.’ 

“‘And  well  sick  of  it,  I ’ll  be  sworn.’ 

“‘  No,  I feel  very  happy;  I like  the  quiet.’ 

“‘  Oh  dear!  oh  dear!  ’ said  he,  with  a long  groan,  ‘ what 
is  to  become  of  me  ? ’ 

“Norvins  heartily  wished  he  could  have  replied  to  the 
question  in  the  way  he  would  have  liked;  but  he  said 
nothing. 

“‘  It ’s  past  eight,’  said  Van  Halsdt,  as  he  perceived  him 
stealing  a look  at  his  watch.  ‘ Never  mind  me,  if  you ’ve 
any  appointment;  I ’ll  soon  learn  to  make  myself  at  home 
here.  Perhaps  you ’d  better  ring  for  some  more  claret, 
however,  before  you  go;  they  don’t  know  me  yet.’ 

“Edward  almost  started  from  his  chair  at  this  speech. 
Such  a liberty  had  never  before  been  heard  of  as  to  call 
for  more  wine;  indeed,  it  was  not  their  ordinary  habit  to 
consume  half  what  was  placed  on  the  table ; but  so  taken 
by  surprise  was  he,  that  he  actually  arose  and  rang  the 
bell,  as  he  was  desired. 

“‘  Some  claret,  Johann,’  said  he  with  a gulp,  as  the  old 
butler  entered. 

“The  man  started  back,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  empty 
decanter. 

“‘And  I say,  ancient,’  said  Van  Halsdt,  ‘don’t  decant 


232 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


it;  you  shook  the  last  bottle  confoundedly.  It ’s  old  wine, 
and  won’t  bear  that  kind  of  usage.’ 

“ The  old  man  moved  away  with  a deep  sigh,  and  returned 
in  about  ten  minutes  with  a bottle  from  the  cellar. 

“‘  Did  n’t  Providence  bless  you  with  two  hands,  friend?  ’ 
said  Van  Halsdt.  ‘ Go  down  for  another.’ 

“‘Go,  Johann, ’ said  Norvins,  as  he  saw  him  hesitate, 
and  not  knowing  what  his  refusal  might  call  forth;  and 
then,  without  waiting  for  further  parley,  he  arose  and 
withdrew. 

Well,’  thought  he,  when  he  was  once  more  alone,  ‘ if 
he  is  a good-looking  fellow,  and  there ’s  no  denying  that, 
one  comfort  is,  he  is  a confirmed  drunkard.  Marguerite 
will  never  be  able  to  endure  him;  ’ for  such,  in  his  secret 
heart,  was  the  reason  of  his  premature  dislike  and  dread 
of  his  new  companion;  and  as  he  strolled  along  he  medi- 
tated on  the  many  ways  he  should  be  able  to  contrast  his 
own  acquirements  with  the  other’s  deficiencies,  for  such 
he  set  them  down  at  once,  and  gradually  reasoned  himself 
into  the  conviction  that  the  fear  of  all  rivalry  from  him 
was  mere  folly;  and  that  whatever  success  his  handsome 
face  and  figure  might  have  elsewhere,  Marguerite  was  not 
the  girl  to  be  caught  by  such  attractions,  when  coupled 
with  an  unruly  temper  and  an  uneducated  mind. 

“And  he  was  right.  Great  as  his  own  repugnance  was 
towards  Van  Halsdt,  hers  was  far  greater.  She  not  only 
avoided  him  ou  every  occasion,  but  took  pleasure,  as  it 
seemed,  in  marking  the  cold  distance  of  her  manner  to 
him,  and  contrasting  it  with  her  behavior  to  others.  It  is 
true  he  appeared  to  care  little  for  this;  and  only  replied 
to  it  by  a half-impertinent  style  of  familiarity,  — a kind  of 
jocular  intimacy  most  insulting  to  a woman,  and  horribly 
tantalizing  for  those  to  witness  who  are  attached  to  her. 

“I  don’t  wish  to  make  my  story  a long  one;  nor  could  I 
■without  entering  into  the  details  of  every-day  life,  which 
now  became  so  completely  altered.  Marguerite  and  Nor- 
vins  met  only  at  rare  intervals,  and  then  less  to  cultivate 
each  other’s  esteem  than  expatiate  on  the  many  demerits  of 
him  who  had  estranged  them  so  utterly.  All  the  reports 
to  his  discredit  that  circulated  in  Frankfort  were  duly 


THE  ABBA’S  STORY. 


233 


conned  over;  and  though  they  could  lay  little  to  his  charge 
of  their  own  actual  knowledge,  they  only  imagined  the 
more,  and  condemned  him  accordingly. 

“To  Norvins  he  became  hourly  more  insupportable. 
There  was  in  all  his  bearing  towards  him  the  quiet,  meas- 
ured tone  of  a superior  to  an  inferior,  the  patronizing  pro- 
tection of  an  elder  to  one  younger  and  less  able  to  defend 
himself, — and  which,  with  the  other’s  consciousness  of 
his  many  intellectual  advantages  over  him,  added  double 
bitterness  to  the  insult.  As  he  never  appeared  in  the 
bureau  of  the  mission,  nor  in  any  way  concerned  himself 
with  official  duties,  they  rarely  met  save  at  table;  there, 
his  appearance  was  the  signal  for  constraint  and  reserve, 
— an  awkwardness  that  made  itself  felt  the  more,  as  the 
author  of  it  seemed  to  exult  in  the  dismay  he  created. 

“Such  then,  was  the  state  of  events  when  Norvins 
received  his  nomination  as  secretary  of  legation  at  Stutt- 
gardt.  The  appointment  was  a surprise  to  him;  he  had 
not  even  heard  of  the  vacancy.  The  position,  however, 
and  the  emoluments  were  such  as  to  admit  of  his  marry- 
ing; and  he  resolved  to  ask  the  baron  for  his  daughter’s 
hand,  to  which  the  rank  and  influence  of  his  own  family 
permitted  him  to  aspire  without  presumption. 

“The  baron  gave  his  willing  consent;  Marguerite 
accepted;  and  the  only  delay  was  now  caused  by  the 
respect  for  an  old  Dutch  custom,  — the  bride  should  be 
at  least  eighteen,  and  Marguerite  yet  wanted  three  months 
of  that  age.  This  interval  Norvins  obtained  leave  to  pass 
at  Frankfort;  and  now  they  went  about  to  all  public  places 
together  as  betrothed;  paid  visits  in  company,  and  were 
recognized  by  all  their  acquaintances  as  engaged  to  each 
other. 

“Just  at  this  time  a French  cuirassier  regiment  marched 
into  garrison  in  the  town;  they  were  on  their  way  to  the 
south  of  Germany,  and  only  detained  in  Frankfort  to  make 
up  their  full  complement  of  horses.  In  this  regiment  was  a 
young  Dutch  officer,  who  once  belonged  to  the  same  regiment 
as  Van  Halsdt,  and  who  was  broke  by  the  court-martial  for 
the  same  quarrel.  They  had  fought  twice  with  swords, 
and  only  parted  with  the  dire  resolve  to  finish  the  affair  at 


234 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY". 


the  next  opportunity.  This  officer  was  a man  of  an  inferior 
class,  his  family  being  an  obscure  one  of  North  Holland ; 
and  thus,  when  dismissed  the  service,  he  had  no  other 
resource  than  to  enter  the  French  army,  at  that  time  at 
war  with  Austria.  He  was  said  to  be  a man  of  overbear- 
ing temper  and  passion,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  the  cir- 
cumstance of  his  expatriation  and  disgrace  had  improved 
him.  However,  some  pledge  Van  Halsdt  had  made  to  his 
father  decided  him  in  keeping  out  of  the  way.  The  report 
ran  that  he  had  given  a solemn  promise  never  to  challenge 
nor  accept  any  challenge  from  the  other  on  any  pretext 
whatsoever.  Whatever  the  promise,  certain  it  was  he  left 
Frankfort  the  same  day  the  regiment  marched  into  town, 
and  retired  to  Wiesbaden. 

“The  circumstance  soon  became  the  subject  of  town 
gossip,  and  plenty  there  were  most  willing  to  attribute 
Van  Halsdt’s  departure  to  prudential  motives,  rather  than 
to  give  so  wild  a character  any  credit  for  filial  ones. 
Several  who  felt  offended  at  his  haughty,  supercilious 
manner  now  exulted  in  this,  as  it  seemed,  fall  to  his 
pride;  and  Norvins,  unfortunately,  fell  into  the  same 
track,  and  by  many  a sly  innuendo  and  half  allusion  to 
his  absence  gave  greater  currency  to  the  report  that  his 
absence  was  dictated  by  other  considerations  than  those  of 
parental  respect. 

“Through  all  the  chit-chat  of  the  time,  Marguerite 
showed  herself  highly  indignant  at  Van  Halsdt’s  con- 
duct. The  quiet  timid  girl,  who  detested  violence  and 
hated  crime  in  any  shape,  felt  disgusted  at  the  thought 
of  his  poltroonery,  and  could  not  hear  his  name  mentioned 
without  an  expression  of  contempt.  All  this  delighted 
Edward;  it  seemed  to  be  the  just  retribution  on  the  former 
insolence  of  the  other,  and  he  longed  for  his  return  to 
Frankfort  to  witness  the  thousand  slights  that  awaited  him. 

“Such  a strange  and  unaccountable  thing  is  our  triumph 
over  others  for  the  want  of  those  qualities  in  which  we 
see  ourselves  deficient.  None  are  so  loud  in  decrying  dis- 
honesty and  fraud  as  the  man  who  feels  the  knave  in  his 
own  heart.  Who  can  censure  female  frailty  like  her  who 
has  felt  its  sting  in  her  own  conscience?  You  remember 


THE  ABBA’S  STORY. 


235 


the  great  traveller,  Mungo  Park,  used  to  calculate  the 
depths  of  rivers  in  Africa  by  rolling  heavy  stones  over 
their  banks  and  watching  the  air-bubbles  that  mounted  to 
the  surface;  so,  oftentimes,  may  you  measure  the  innate 
sense  of  a vice  by  the  execration  some  censor  of  morals 
bestows  upon  it.  Believe  me,  these  heavy  chastisements 
of  crime  are  many  times  but  the  cries  of  awakened  con- 
science. I speak  strongly,  but  I feel  deeply  on  this 
subject. 

“ But  to  my  story.  It  was  the  custom  for  Marguerite 
and  her  lover  each  evening  to  visit  the  theatre,  where  the 
minister  had  a box;  and  as  they  were  stepping  into  the  car- 
riage one  night  as  usual,  Van  Ilalsdt  drove  up  to  the  door 
and  asked  if  he  might  accompany  them.  Of  course,  a 
refusal  was  out  of  the  question;  he  was  a member  of  the 
mission;  he  had  done  nothing  to  forfeit  his  position  there, 
however  much  he  had  lost  in  the  estimation  of  society  gen- 
erally; and  they  acceded  to  his  request,  still  with  a species 
of  cold  courtesy  that  would,  by  any  other  man,  have  been 
construed  into  a refusal. 

“As  they  drove  along  in  silence,  the  constraint  increased 
at  every  moment,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  long-sup- 
pressed feeling  of  hated  rivalry,  Norvins  could  have  pitied 
Van  Halsdt  as  he  sat,  no  longer  with  his  easy  smile  of  self- 
satisfied  indifference,  but  with  a clouded,  heavy  brow,  mute 
and  pale.  As  for  Marguerite,  her  features  expressed  a 
species  of  quiet,  cold  disdain  whenever  she  looked  towards 
him,  far  more  terrible  to  bear  than  anything  like  an  open 
reproach.  Twice  or  thrice  he  made  an  effort  to  start  some 
topic  of  conversation,  but  in  vain;  his  observations  were 
either  unreplied  to,  or  met  a cold,  distant  assent  more 
chilling  still.  At  length,  as  if  resolved  to  break  through 
their  icy  reserve  towards  him,  he  asked  in  a tone  of 
affected  indifference,  — 

“‘Any  changes  in  Frankfort,  Mademoiselle,  since  I had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  last?  ’ 

“‘None,  sir,  that  I know  of,  save  that  the  French 
cuirassier  regiment  marched  this  morning  for  Baden,  of 
which,  however,  it  is  more  than  probable  you  are  aware 
already 


236 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ On  each  of  these  latter  words  she  laid  an  undue  stress, 
fixing  her  eyes  steadfastly  on  him,  and  speaking  in  a slow, 
measured  tone.  He  grew  deeply  red,  almost  black  for  a 
moment  or  two;  his  mustache  seemed  almost  to  bristle 
with  the  tremulous  convulsion  that  shook  his  upper  lip; 
then  as  suddenly  he  became  lividly  pale,  while  the  great 
drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  his  brow,  and  fell  upon  his 
cheek.  Not  another  word  was  spoken.  They  soon  reached 
the  theatre,  when  Norvins  offered  Marguerite  his  arm,  Van 
Halsdt  slowly  following  them  upstairs. 

“The  play  was  one  of  Lessing’s  and  well  acted;  but 
somehow  Norvins  could  pay  no  attention  to  the  perform- 
ance, his  whole  soul  being  occupied  by  other  thoughts. 
Marguerite  appeared  to  him  in  a different  light  from  what 
he  had  ever  seen  her,  — not  less  to  be  loved,  but  altogether 
different.  The  staid,  placid  girl,  whose  quiet  thoughts 
seemed  never  to  rest  on  topics  of  violent  passion  or 
excitement,  who  fled  from  the  very  approach  of  anything 
bordering  on  overwrought  feeling,  now  appeared  carried 
away  by  her  abhorrence  of  a man  to  the  very  extreme  of 
hatred  for  conduct  which  Norvins  scarcely  thought  she 
should  have  considered  even  faulty.  If,  then,  his  triumph 
over  Van  Halsdt  brought  any  pleasure  to  his  heart,  a 
secret  sense  of  his  own  deficiency  in  the  very  quality  for 
which  she  condemned  him  made  him  shudder. 

“While  he  reflected  thus,  his  ear  was  struck  with  a 
conversation  in  the  box  next  his,  in  which  were  seated  a 
large  party  of  young  men,  with  two  or  three  ladies,  whose 
air,  dress,  and  manners  were  at  least  somewhat  equivocal. 

“‘And  so,  Alphonse,  you  succeeded  after  all?’  said  a 
youth  to  a large,  powerful,  dark-mustached  man,  whose 
plain  blue  frock  could  not  conceal  the  soldier. 

“‘Yes,’  replied  he,  in  a deep  sonorous  voice;  ‘our 
doctor  managed  the  matter  for  me.  He  pronounced  me 
unable  to  march  before  to-morrow;  he  said  that  my  old 
wound  in  the  arm  gave  symptoms  of  uneasiness,  and 
required  a little  more  rest.  But,  by  Saint  Denis,  I see 
little  benefit  in  the  plan,  after  all.  This  “white  feather” 
has  not  ventured  back,  and  I must  leave  in  the  morning 
without  meeting  him.’ 


THE  ABBE’S  STORY. 


237 


“These  words,  which  were  spoken  somewhat  loudly, 
could  be  easily  heard  in  any  part  of  the  adjoining  box; 
and  scarcely  were  they  uttered  when  Van  Halsdt,  who  sat 
the  entire  evening  far  back,  and  entirely  concealed  from 
view,  covered  his  face  with  both  his  hands,  and  remained  in 
that  posture  for  several  minutes.  When  he  withdrew 
them,  the  alteration  in  his  countenance  was  actually  fear- 
ful. Though  his  cheeks  were  pale  as  death,  his  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  and  the  lids  swelled  and  congested;  his  lips, 
too,  were  protruded,  and  trembled  like  one  in  an  ague,  and 
his  clasped  hands  shook  against  the  chair. 

“Norvins  would  have  asked  him  if  he  were  ill,  but  was 
afraid  even  to  speak  to  him,  while  again  his  attention  was 
drawn  off  by  the  voices  near  him. 

“‘Not  got  a bouquet?’  said  the  large  man  to  a lady 
beside  him;  ‘ pardie,  that’s  too  bad.  Let  me  assist  you. 
I perceive  that  this  pretty  damsel,  who  turns  her  shoulder 
so  disdainfully  towards  us,  makes  little  use  of  hers,  and  so 
avec  permission,  Mademoiselle!’  With  that  he  stood  up, 
and  leaning  across  the  division  into  their  box,  stretched 
over  his  hand  and  took  the  bouquet  that  lay  before  Mar- 
guerite, and  handed  it  to  the  lady  at  his  side. 

“Marguerite  started  back,  as  her  eyes  flashed  with 
offended  pride,  and  then  turned  them  on  her  lover.  He 
stood  up,  not  to  resent  the  insult,  but  to  offer  her  his  arm 
to  leave  the  box.  She  gave  him  a look:  never  in  a glance 
was  there  read  such  an  expression  of  withering  contempt; 
and  drawing  her  shawl  around  her,  she  said  in  a low  voice, 
‘The  carriage.’  Before  Edward  could  open  the  box  door 
to  permit  her  to  pass  out,  Van  Halsdt  sprang  to  the  front 
of  the  box,  and  stretched  over.  Then  came  a crash,  a cry, 
a confused  shout  of  many  voices  together,  and  the  word 
polisson  above  all;  but  hurrying  Marguerite  along,  Norvins 
hastened  down  the  stairs  and  assisted  her  into  the  carriage. 
As  she  took  her  place,  he  made  a gesture  as  if  to  follow, 
but  she  drew  the  door  towards  her,  and  with  a shuddering 
expression,  ‘ No!  ’ leaned  back,  and  closed  the  door.  The 
caliche  moved  on,  and  Norvins  was  alone  in  the  street. 

“ I shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  terrific  rush  of 
sensations  that  came  crowding  on  his  brain.  Coward  as 


238 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


he  was,  he  would  have  braved  a hundred  deaths  rather 
than  endure  such  agony.  He  turned  towards  the  theatre, 
but  his  craven  spirit  seemed  to  paralyze  his  very  limbs; 
he  felt  as  if  were  his  antagonist  before  him,  he  would  not 
have  had  energy  to  speak  to  him.  Marguerite’s  look  was 
ever  before  him ; it  sank  into  his  inmost  soul ; it  was  burn- 
ing there  like  a fire,  that  no  memory  nor  after  sorrow 
should  ever  quench. 

“ As  he  stood  thus,  an  arm  was  passed  hastily  through 
his,  and  he  was  led  along.  It  was  Van  Halsdt,  his  hat 
drawn  over  his  brows,  and  a slight  mark  of  blood  upon  his 
cheek.  He  seemed  so  overwhelmed  with  his  own  sensa- 
tions as  not  to  be  cognizant  of  his  companion’s. 

“ ‘ I struck  him,  ’ said  he,  in  a thick  guttural  voice,  the 
very  breathings  of  vengeance,  — ‘ I struck  him  to  my  feet. 
It  is  now  a la  mort  between  us,  and  better  it  should  be  so 
at  once.’  As  he  spoke  thus  he  turned  towards  the  boule- 
vard, instead  of  the  usual  way  towards  the  embassy. 

‘“We  are  going  wrong,’  said  Norvins,  — ‘this  leads  to 
the  Breiten  gasse.’ 

“ ‘ I know  it,  ’ was  the  brief  reply ; ‘ we  must  make  for 
the  country;  the  thing  was  too  public  not  to  excite  meas- 
ures of  precaution.  We  are  to  rendezvous  at  Katznach.’ 

“ ‘ With  swords?  ’ 

ISTo ; pistols,  this  time,’  said  he,  with  a fiendish 
emphasis  on  the  last  words. 

“ They  walked  on  for  above  an  hour,  passing  through 
the  gate  of  the  town,  and  reaching  the  open  country,  each 
silent  and  lost  in  his  own  thoughts. 

At  a small  cabaret  they  procured  horses  and  a guide  to 
Katznach,  which  was  about  eleven  miles  up  the  mountain. 

1 he  way  was  so  steep  that  they  were  obliged  to  walk  their 
horses,  and  frequently  to  get  down  and  lead  them;  yet  not 
a word  was  spoken  on  either  side.  Once,  only,  Norvins 
asked  how  he  was  to  get  his  pistols  from  Frankfort;  to  which 
the  other  answered  merely,  ‘ They  provide  the  weapons!’ 
and  they  were  again  silent. 

Norvins  was  somewhat  surprised,  and  offended  also, 
that  his  companion  should  have  given  him  so  little  of  his 
confidence  at  such  a moment;  gladly,  indeed,  would  he 


THE  ABBA'S  STORY. 


239 


have  exchanged  his  own  thoughts  for  those  of  any  one 
else,  but  he  left  him  to  ruminate  in  silence  on  his  unhappy 
position,  and  to  brood  over  miseries  that  every  minute 
seemed  to  aggravate. 

“‘  They  ’re  coming  up  the  road  yonder;  I see  them  now,’ 
said  Van  Halsdt,  suddenly,  as  he  aroused  the  other  from 
a deep  train  of  melancholy  thoughts.  ‘ Ha!  how  lame  he 
walks!  ’ cried  he,  with  savage  exultation. 

“In  a few  minutes  the  party,  consisting  of  four  persons, 
dismounted  from  their  horses,  and  entered  the  little  burial- 
ground  beside  the  chapel.  One  of  them  advancing  hastily 
towards  Van  Halsdt,  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and 
whispered  something  in  his  ear.  The  other  replied;  when 
the  first  speaker  turned  towards  Norvins  with  a look  of 
ineffable  scorn  and  then  passed  over  to  the  opposite  group. 
Edward  soon  perceived  that  this  man  was  to  act  as  Ilalsdt’s 
friend;  and  though  really  glad  that  such  an  office  fell  not 
to  his  share,  he  was  deeply  offended  on  being  thus,  as  it 
were,  passed  over.  In  this  state  of  dogged  anger  he  sat 
down  on  a tombstone,  and,  as  if  having  no  interest  what- 
ever in  the  whole  proceedings,  never  once  looked  towards 
them. 

“Norvins  did  not  notice  that  the  party  now  took  the 
path  towards  the  wood,  nor  was  he  conscious  of  the  flight 
of  time,  when  suddenly  the  loud  report  of  two  pistols,  so 
close  together  as  to  be  almost  blended,  rang  through  his 
ears.  Then  he  sprang  up,  a dreadful  pang  piercing  his 
bosom,  some  terrible  sense  of  guilt  he  could  neither  fathom 
nor  explain  flashing  across  him.  At  the  same  instant  the 
brushwood  crashed  behind  him,  and  Van  Halsdt  and  his 
companion  came  out;  the  former  with  his  eyes  glistening 
and  his  cheek  flushed,  the  other  pale  and  dreadfully  agi- 
tated. He  nodded  towards  Edward  significantly,  and  Van 
Halsdt  said,  ‘ Yes.’ 

“ Before  Norvins  could  conjecture  what  this  meant,  the 
stranger  approached  him,  and  said,  — 

I am  sorry,  sir,  the  sad  work  of  this  morning  cannot 
end  here;  but  of  course  you  are  prepared  to  afford  my 
friend  the  only  reparation  in  your  power.’ 

“‘Me!  reparation!  what  do  you  mean?  Afford  whom?’ 


240 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“‘Monsieur  van  Halsdt, ’ said  he,  coolly;  and  with  a 
slight  emphasis  of  contempt  as  he  spoke. 

“‘Monsieur  van  Halsdt!  he  never  offended  me;  I never 
insulted,  never  injured  Aim,’  said  Edward,  trembling  at 
every  word. 

“ ‘ Never  injured  me  / ’ cried  Van  Halsdt.  ‘ Is  it  nothing 
that  you  have  ruined  me  forever;  that  your  cowardice  to 
resent  an  affront  offered  to  one  who  should  have  been 
dearer  than  your  life,  a hundred  times  told,  should  have 
involved  me  in  a duel  with  a man  I swore  never  to  meet, 
never  to  cross  swords  nor  exchange  a shot  with?  Is  it 
nothing  that  I am  to  be  disgraced  by  my  king,  disinher- 
ited by  my  father,  — a beggar  and  an  exile  at  once?  Is  it 
nothing,  sir,  that  the  oldest  name  of  Friesland  is  to  be 
blotted  from  the  nobles  of  his  nation?  Is  it  nothing  that 
for  you  I should  be  what  I now  am  ? ’ 

“The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a voice  that  made 
Norvins’s  very  blood  run  cold;  but  he  could  not  speak, 
he  could  not  mutter  a word  in  answer. 

“‘What!’  said  Van  Halsdt,  in  an  accent  of  cutting 
sarcasm,  ‘ I thought  that  perhaps  in  the  suddenness  of 
the  moment  your  courage,  unprepared  for  an  unexpected 
call,  might  not  have  stood  your  part;  but  can  it  be  true 
that  you  are  a coward?  Is  this  the  case?  ’ 

“Norvins  hung  down  his  head;  the  sickness  of  death 
was  on  him.  The  dreadful  pause  was  broken  at  last;  it 
wTas  Van  Halsdt  who  spoke,  — 

“‘Adieu,  sir;  I grieve  for  you.  I hope  we  may  never 
meet  again;  yet  let  me  give  you  a counsel  ere  we  part. 
There  is  but  one  coat  men  can  wear  with  impunity  when 
they  carry  a malevolent  and  a craven  spirit;  you  can 
be  a — ’ ” 

“Monsieur  l’Abbe,  the  dinner  is  on  the  table,”  said  a 
servant,  entering  at  this  moment  of  the  story. 

“ Ma  foi,  and  so  it  is,”  said  he,  looking  gayly  at  his 
watch,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

“But  mademoiselle,”  said  I,  “what  became  of  her?” 
“Ah,  Marguerite:  she  was  married  to  Van  Halsdt  in  less 
than  three  months.  The  cuirassier  fortunately  recovered 


THE  ABBA’S  STORY. 


241 


from  his  wounds ; the  duel  was  shown  to  be  a thing  forced 
by  the  stress  of  consequences.  As  for  Van  Halsdt,  the 
king  forgave  him,  and  he  is  now  ambassador  at  Naples.” 

“And  the  other,  Norvins?  — though  I scarcely  feel  any 
interest  in  him.” 

“I’m  sorry  for  it,”  said  he,  laughing;  “but  won’t  you 
move  forward?” 

With  that  he  made  me  a polite  bow  to  precede  him 
towards  the  dinner-room,  and  followed  me  with  the  jaunty 
step  and  the  light  gesture  of  an  easy  and  contented  nature. 

1 need  scarcely  say  that  I did  not  sit  next  the  able  that 
day  at  dinner;  on  the  contrary,  I selected  the  most  stupid- 
looking old  man  I could  find  for  my  neighbor,  hugging 
myself  in  the  thought,  that,  where  there  is  little  agreea- 
bility,  Nature  may  kindly  have  given  in  recompense  some 
traits  of  honesty  and  some  vestiges  of  honor.  Indeed, 
such  a disgust  did  I feel  for  the  amusing  features  of  the 
pleasantest  part  of  the  company,  and  so  inextricably  did  I 
connect  repartee  with  rascality,  that  I trembled  at  every 
good  thing  I heard,  and  stole  away  early  to  bed,  resolving 
never  to  take  sudden  fancies  to  agreeable  people  as  long  as 
I lived,  — an  oath  which  a long  residence  in  a certain  coun- 
try that  shall  be  nameless  happily  permits  me  to  keep,  with 
little  temptation  to  transgress. 

The  next  morning  was  indeed  a brilliant  one, — the 
earth  refreshed  by  rain,  the  verdure  more  brilliant,  the 
mountain  streams  grown  fuller;  all  the  landscape  seemed 
to  shine  forth  in  its  gladdest  features.  I was  up  and  stir- 
ring soon  after  sunrise;  and  with  all  my  prejudices  against 
such  a means  of  “lengthening  one’s  days,”  I sat  at  my 
window,  actually  entranced  with  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 
Beyond  the  river  there  rose  a heath-clad  mountain,  along 
which  misty  masses  of  vapor  swept  hurriedly,  disclosing 
as  they  passed  some  tiny  patch  of  cultivation  struggling 
for  life  amid  granite  rocks  and  abrupt  precipices.  As  the 
sun  grew  stronger,  the  gray  tints  became  brown  and  the 
brown  grew  purple,  while  certain  dark  lines  that  tracked 
their  way  from  summit  to  base  began  to  shine  like  silver, 
and  showed  the  course  of  many  a mountain  torrent  tum- 
bling and  splashing  towards  that  little  lake  that  lay  calm 

16 


242 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


as  a mirror  below.  Immediately  beneath  my  window  was 
the  garden  of  the  chateau,  — a succession  of  terraces  de- 
scending to  the  very  river.  The  quaint  yew  hedges  carved 
into  many  a strange  device,  the  balustrades  half  hidden  by 
flowering  shrubs  and  creepers,  the  marble  statues  peeping 
out  here  and  there,  trim  and  orderly  as  they  looked,  were 
a pleasant  feature  of  the  picture,  and  heightened  the  effect 
of  the  desolate  grandeur  of  the  distant  view.  The  very 
swans  that  sailed  about  on  the  oval  pond  told  of  habitation 
and  life,  just  as  the  broad  expanded  wing  that  soared  above 
the  mountain  peak  spoke  of  the  wild  region  where  the  eagle 
was  king. 

My  musings  were  suddenly  brought  to  a close  by  a voice 
on  the  terrace  beneath.  It  was  that  of  a man  who  was  evi- 
dently, from  his  pace,  enjoying  his  morning’s  promenade 
under  the  piazza  of  the  chateau,  while  he  hummed  a tune 
to  pass  away  the  time : — 

“ ‘ Why,  soldiers,  why 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys  ? 

Why,  soldiers,  why  ? 

Whose  business — ’ 

Holloa,  there,  Francois,  ain’t  they  stirring  yet?  Why, 
it’s  past  six  o’clock!” 

The  person  addressed  was  a serving-man,  who  in  the 
formidable  attire  of  an  English  groom  — in  which  he  was 
about  as  much  at  home  as  a coronation  champion  feels  in 
plate  armor  — was  crossing  the  garden  towards  the  stables. 

“No,  sir;  the  count  won’t  start  before  eight.” 

“And  when  do  we  breakfast?” 

“At  seven,  sir.” 

“ The  devil ! another  hour,  — 

‘ Why,  soldiers,  why. 

Should  we  be  — ’ 

I say,  Francois,  what  horse  do  they  mean  for  Mademoiselle 
Laura  to-day?” 

“ The  mare  she  rode  on  Wednesday,  sir.  Mademoiselle 
liked  her  very  much.” 

“And  what  have  they  ordered  for  the  stranger  that  came 
the  night  before  last,  — the  gentleman  who  was  robbed  — ” 


THE  ABBA’S  STORY. 


243 


“I  know,  I know,  sir;  the  roan,  with  the  cut  on  her 
knee.” 

“ Why,  she  ’s  a mad  one ! she  ’s  a run-away ! ” 

“So  she  is,  sir;  but  then  Monsieur  is  an  Englishman, 
and  the  count  says  he  'll  soon  tame  the  roan  filly.” 

“ ‘ Why,  soldiers,  why  — ’ ” 

hummed  the  old  colonel,  for  it  was  Muddleton  himself; 
and  the  groom  pursued  his  way  without  further  question- 
ing. Whereupon  two  thoughts  took  possession  of  my 
brain:  one  of  which  was,  what  peculiar  organization  it  is 
which  makes  certain  old  people  who  have  nothing  to  do 
early  risers;  the  other,  what  offence  had  I committed  to 
induce  the  master  of  the  chateau  to  plot  my  sudden  death. 

The  former  has  been  a puzzle  to  me  all  my  life.  What 
a blessing  should  sleep  be  to  that  class  of  beings  who  do 
nothing  when  awake;  how  they  should  covet  those  drowsy 
hours  that  give,  as  it  were,  a sanction  to  indolence;  with 
what  anxiety  they  ought  to  await  the  fall  of  day,  as 
announcing  the  period  when  they  become  the  equals  of 
their  fellow-men;  and  with  what  terror  they  should  look 
forward  to  the  time  when  the  busy  world  is  up  and  stir- 
ring, and  their  incapacity  and  slothfulness  only  become 
more  glaring  from  contrast!  Would  not  any  one  say  that 
such  people  would  naturally  cultivate  sleep  as  their  com- 
forter? Should  they  not  hug  their  pillow  as  the  friend  of 
their  bosom?  On  the  contrary,  these  are  invariably  your 
early  risers.  Every  house  where  1 have  ever  been  on  a visit 
has  had  at  least  one  of  these  troubled  and  troublesome  spirits, 
— the  torment  of  Boots,  the  horror  of  housemaids.  Their 
chronic  cough  forms  a duet  with  the  inharmonious  crowing 
of  the  young  cock,  who  for  lack  of  better  knowledge  pro- 
claims day  a full  hour  before  his  time.  Their  creaking 
shoes  are  the  accompaniment  to  the  scrubbing  of  brass 
fenders  and  the  twigging  of  carpets,  the  jarring  sounds 
of  opening  shutters  and  the  cranking  discord  of  a hall-door 
chain;  their  heavy  step  sounds  like  a nightmare’s  tread 
through  the  whole  sleeping  house.  And  what  is  the  object 
of  all  this?  What  new  fact  have  they  acquired ; what  diffi- 
cult question  have  they  solved;  whom  have  they  made 


244 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


happier  or  wiser  or  better?  Not  Betty  the  cook,  cer- 
tainly, whose  morning  levee  of  beggars  they  have  most 
unceremoniously  scattered  and  scared;  not  Mary  the  house- 
maid, who,  unaccustomed  to  be  caught  en  deshabille , is 
cross  the  whole  day  after,  though  he  was  “only  an  elderly 
gentleman,  and  wore  spectacles ; ” not  Richard,  who  cleaned 
their  shoes  by  candle-light;  nor  the  venerable  butler,  who 
from  shame’s  sake  is  up  and  dressed,  but  who,  still  asleep, 
stands  with  his  corkscrew  in  his  hand,  under  the  vague 
impression  that  it  is  a late  supper-party. 

These  people,  too,  have  always  a consequential,  self- 
satisfied  look  about  them ; they  seem  to  say  they  know  a 
“ thing  or  two  ” others  have  no  wot  of,  — as  though  the 
day,  more  confidential  when  few  were  by,  told  them  some 
capital  secrets  the  sleepers  never  heard  of,  and  they  made 
this  pestilential  habit  a reason  for  eating  the  breakfast  of 
a Cossack,  as  if  the  consumption  of  victuals  was  a cardinal 
virtue.  Civilized  differs  from  savage  life  as  much  by  the 
regulation  of  time  as  by  any  other  feature.  I see  no 
objection  to  your  red  man,  who  probably  can’t  go  to  break- 
fast till  he  has  caught  a bear,  being  up  betimes;  but  for 
the  gentleman  who  goes  to  bed  with  the  conviction  that 
hot  rolls  and  coffee,  tea  and  marmalade,  bloaters  and  honey, 
ham,  muffins,  and  eggs  await  him  at  ten  o’clock,  for  him, 
I say,  these  absurd  vagabondisms  are  an  insufferable  affec- 
tation, and  a most  unwarrantable  liberty  with  the  peace 
and  privacy  of  a household. 

Meanwhile,  old  Colonel  Muddleton  is  parading  below; 
and  here  we  must  leave  him  for  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE  CHASE. 

I wish  any  one  would  explain  to  me  why  it  is  that  the 
tastes  and  pursuits  of  nations  are  far  more  difficult  of  imi- 
tation than  their  languages  or  institutions.  Nothing  is 
more  common  than  to  find  Poles  and  Russians  speaking 
half  the  tongues  of  Europe  like  natives.  Germans  fre- 
quently attain  to  similar  excellence;  and  some  English- 
men have  the  gift  also.  In  the  same  way  it  would  not  be 
difficult  to  produce  many  foreigners  well  acquainted  with 
all  the  governmental  details  of  the  countries  they  have 
visited, — the  policy,  foreign  and  domestic;  the  statistics 
of  debt  and  taxation;  the  religious  influences;  the  re- 
sources, and  so  forth.  Indeed,  in  our  days  of  universal 
travel,  this  kind  of  information  has  more  or  less  become 
general,  while  the  tastes  and  habits,  which  appear  so 
much  more  easily  acquired,  are  the  subjects  of  the  most 
absurd  mistakes,  or  the  most  blundering  imitation.  To 
instance  what  I mean,  who  ever  saw  any  but  a Hungarian 
dance  the  mazurka  with  even  tolerable  grace?  Who  ever 
saw  waltzing  except  among  the  Austrians?  Who  ever  be- 
held “ toilette  ” out  of  France?  So  it  is,  however.  Some 
artificial  boundary  drawn  with  a red  line  on  a map  by  the 
hand  of  Nesselrode  or  Talleyrand,  some  pin  stuck  down 
in  the  chart  by  the  fingers  of  Metternich,  decides  the 
whole  question,  and  says,  “ Thus  far  shalt  thou  dance  and 
no  farther.  Beyond  this  there  are  no  pates  de  perigord. 
Here  begin  pipes  and  tobacco;  there  end  macaroni  and 
music.” 

Whatever  their  previous  tastes,  men  soon  conform  to 
the  habits  of  a nation,  and  these  arbitrary  boundaries  of 
the  gentlemen  of  the  red  tape,  become  like  Nature’s  own 
frontiers  of  flood  or  mountain.  Not  but  it  must  have  been 
somewhat  puzzling  in  the  good  days  of  the  Consulate  and 


246 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


the  Empire  to  trim  one’s  sails  quick  enough  for  the  changes 
of  the  political  hurricane.  You  were  an  Italian  yesterday, 
you  are  a Frenchman  to-day;  you  went  to  bed  a Prussian, 
and  you  awoke  a Dutchman.  These  were  sore  trials,  and 
had  they  been  pushed  much  further,  must  have  led  to  the 
most  strange  misconceptions  and  mistakes. 

Now,  with  a word  of  apology  for  the  digression,  let  me 
come  back  to  the  cause  of  it  — and  yet  why  should  I make 
my  excuses  on  this  head?  These  “ Loiterings  ” of  mine  are 
as  much  in  the  wide  field  of  dreamy  thought,  as  over  the 
plains  and  valleys  of  the  material  world.  I never  prom- 
ised to  follow  a regular  track,  nor  did  I set  out  on  my 
journey  bound,  like  a king’s  messenger,  to  be  at  my  des- 
tination in  a given  time.  Not  a bit  of  it.  I ’ll  take 
“mine  ease  in  mine  inn.”  I’ll  stay  a week,  a fortnight, 
— ay,  a month,  here,  if  I please  it.  You  may  not  like  the 
accommodation,  nor  wish  to  put  up  with  a “settle  and 
stewed  parsnips.”  Be  it  so.  Here  we  part  company  then. 
If  you  don’t  like  my  way  of  travel,  there ’s  the  diligence, 
or,  if  you  prefer  it,  take  the  extra  post,  and  calculate,  if 
you  can,  how  to  pay  your  postilion  in  kreutzers  — invented 
by  the  devil,  I believe,  to  make  men  swear  — and  for  miles, 
that  change  with  every  little  grand-duchy  of  three  acres  in 
extent.  I wish  you  joy  of  your  travelling  companions,  — 
the  German  who  smokes,  and  the  Frenchman  who  frowns 
at  you;  the  old  Vrau  who  falls  asleep  on  your  shoulder, 
and  the  Bonne  who  gives  you  a baby  to  hold  in  your 
lap.  But  why  have  I put  myself  into  this  towering  pas- 
sion? Heaven  knows  it ’s  not  my  wont.  And  once  more 
to  go  back,  and  find,  if  I can,  what  I was  thinking  of. 
I have  it.  This  same  digression  of  mine  was  a,  propos  to 
the  scene  I witnessed,  as  our  breakfast  concluded  at  the 
chateau. 

All  the  world  was  to  figure  on  horseback,  — the  horses 
themselves  no  bad  evidence  of  the  exertions  used  to  mount 
the  party.  Here  was  a rugged  pony  from  the  Ardennes, 
with  short  neck  and  low  shoulder,  his  head  broad  as  a 
bull’s,  and  his  counter  like  the  bow  of  a Dutch  galliot; 
there,  a great  Flemish  beast,  seventeen  hands  high,  with  a 
tail  festooned  over  a straw  “bustle,”  and  even  still  hang- 


THE  CHASE. 


247 


ing  some  inches  on  the  ground,  — straight  in  the  shoulder, 
and  straighter  in  the  pasterns,  giving  the  rider  a shock  at 
every  motion  that  to  any  other  than  a Fleming  would  lead 
to  concussion  of  the  brain.  Here  stood  an  English  thor- 
oughbred, sadly  “ shook  ” before,  and  with  that  tremulous 
quivering  of  the  fore-legs  that  betokens  a life  of  hard 
work;  still,  with  all  his  imperfections,  and  the  mark  of 
a spavin  behind,  he  looked  like  a gentleman  among  a 
crowd  of  low  fellows,  — a reduced  gentleman  it  is  true, 
but  a gentleman  still;  his  mane  was  long  and  silky,  his 
coat  was  short  and  glossy,  his  head  finely  formed,  and  well 
put  on  his  long,  taper,  and  well-balanced  neck.  Beside 
him  was  a huge  Holsteiner,  flapping  his  broad  flanks  with 
a tail  like  a weeping  ash,  — a great  massive  animal,  that 
seemed  from  his  action  as  if  he  were  in  the  habit  of 
ascending  stairs,  and  now  and  then  got  the  shock  one 
feels  when  they  come  to  a step  too  few.  Among  the  mass 
there  were  some  “Limousins,” — pretty,  neatly-formed 
little  animals,  with  great  strength  for  their  appearance, 
and  showing  a deal  of  Arab  breeding,  — and  an  odd 
Schimmel  or  two  from  Hungary,  snorting  and  pawing 
like  a war-horse;  but  the  staple  was  a collection  of  such 
screws  as  every  week  are  to  be  seen  at  Tattersall’s  auction, 
announced  as  “first-rate  weight-carriers  with  any  fox- 
hounds, fast  in  double  and  single  harness,  and  ‘ believed  ’ 
sound  by  the  owner.” 

Well,  what  credulous  people  are  the  proprietors  of 
horses!  These  are  the  great  exports  to  the  Low  Coun- 
tries, repaid  in  mock  Vandycks,  apocryphal  Rembrandts, 
and  fabulous  Hobbimas,  for  the  exhibition  of  which  in  our 
dining-rooms  and  libraries  we  are  as  heartily  laughed  at 
as  they  are  for  their  taste  in  manners  equine.  And  in  the 
same  way  exactly  as  we  insist  upon  a great  name  with  our 
landscape  or  our  battle,  so  your  Fleming  must  have  a pedi- 
gree with  his  hunter.  There  must  be  “dam  to  Louisa,” 
and  “own  brother  to  Ratcatcher’  and  Titus  Oates,  that 
won  the  “Levanter  Handicap”  in  — no  matter  where.  Oh 
dear,  oh  dear!  when  shall  we  have  sense  enough  to  go 
without  Snyders  and  Ostade?  And  when  will  Flemings 
be  satisfied  to  ride  on  beasts  which  befit  them, — strong 


248 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


of  limb,  slow  of  gait,  dull  of  temper,  and  not  over-fastid- 
ious in  feeding;  whose  parentage  lias  had  no  registry,  and 
whose  blood  relations  never  were  chronicled? 

Truly,  England  is  the  land  of  “turn-out.”  All  the 
foreign  imitations  of  it  are  most  ludicrous,  — from  Prince 
Max  of  Bavaria,  who  brought  back  with  him  to  Munich  a 
lord-mayor’s  coach,  gilding,  emblazonry,  wigs,  and  all,  as 
the  true  type  of  a London  equipage,  down  to  those  strange 
merry-andrew  figures  in  orange-plush  breeches  and  sky- 
blue  frocks,  that  one  sees  galloping  after  their  masters 
along  the  Champs  Elysees,  like  insane  comets  taking  an 
airing  on  horseback.  The  whole  thing  is  absurd.  They 
cannot  accomplish  it,  do  what  they  will;  there’s  no  suc- 
cess in  the  endeavor.  It  is  like  our  miserable  failures  to 
get  up  a petit  diner  or  a soiree.  If,  then,  French,  Ital- 
ians, and  Germans  fail  so  lamentably,  only  think,  I beseech 
you,  of  Flemings, — imagine  Belgium  a cheval!  The 
author  of  “ Hudibras  ” discovered  years  ago  that  these 
people  were  fish;  that  their  land-life  was  a little  bit  of 
distraction  they  permitted  themselves  to  take  from  time 
to  time,  but  that  their  real  element  was  a dyke  or  a canal. 
What  would  he  have  said  had  he  seen  them  on  horseback? 

Now,  I am  free  to  confess  that  few  men  have  less  hope 
to  win  the  world  by  deeds  of  horsemanship  than  Arthur 
O’Leary.  I have  ever  looked  upon  it  as  a kind  of  pre- 
sumption in  me  to  get  into  the  saddle.  I have  regarded 
my  taking  the  reins  as  a species  of  duplicity  on  my  part, 
— a tacit  assumption  that  I had  any  sort  of  control  over 
the  beast.  I have  appeared  to  myself  guilty  of  a moral 
misdemeanor, — the  “obtaining  a ride  under  false  pre- 
tences.” Yet  when  I saw  myself  astride  of  the  “roan 
with  the  cut  on  her  knee,”  and  looked  around  me  at  the 
others,  T fancied  that  I must  have  taken  lessons  from 
Franconi  without  knowing  it;  and  even  among  the  mus- 
tached  heroes  of  the  evening  before,  I bore  myself  like  a 
gallant  cavalier. 

“You  sit  your  horse  devilish  like  your  father;  he  had 
just  the  same  easy  degage  way  in  his  saddle,”  said  the 
old  colonel,  tapping  his  snuff-box,  and  looking  at  me  with 
a smile  of  marked  approval;  while  he  continued  in  a lower 


THE  CHASE. 


249 


tone,  “ I ’ve  told  Laura  to  get  near  you  if  the  mare  becomes 
troublesome.  The  Flemings,  you  know,  are  not  much  to 
boast  of  as  riders.” 

I acknowledged  the  favor  as  well  as  I could,  for  already 
my  horse  was  becoming  fidgety, — every  one  about  me 
thinking  it  essential  to  spur  and  whip  his  beast  into  the 
nearest  approach  to  mettle,  and  caper  about  like  so  many 
devils,  while  they  cried  out  to  one  another,  — 

“Regardez,  Charles,  comment  il  est  vif  ce  ‘ Tear  away.’ 
C’est  une  bete  du  diable.  Ah,  tiens,  tiens,  vois  done 
‘Albert.’  Le  voila,  c’est.  ‘All-in-my-eye,’  fils  de  ‘Charles 
Fox,’  frere  de  ‘ Sevins-de-main.’  ” 

“Ah,  Marquis,  how  goes  it?  II  est  beau  votre  cheval.” 
“Oui,  parbleu;  he  is  frere  aine  of  ‘ Kiss-mi-ladi,  ’ qui  a 
gagne  le  handicap  a l’lle  du  Dogs.” 

And  thus  did  these  miserable  imitators  of  Ascot  and 
Doncaster,  of  Leamington  and  the  Quorn,  talk  the  most 
insane  nonsense,  which  had  been  told  to  them  by  some 
London  horsedealer  as  the  pedigree  of  their  hackneys. 

It  was  really  delightful  amid  all  this  to  look  at  the  two 
English  girls,  who  sat  their  horses  so  easily  and  so  grace- 
fully. Bending  slightly  with  each  curvet,  they  only 
yielded  to  the  impulse  of  the  animal  as  much  as  served 
to  keep  their  own  balance;  the  light  but  steady  finger  on 
the  bridle,  the  air  of  quiet  composure,  uniting  elegance 
with  command.  What  a contrast  to  the  distorted  gesture, 
the  desperate  earnestness,  and  the  fearful  tenacity  of  their 
much- whiskered  companions!  And  yet  it  was  to  please 
and  fascinate  these  same  pinchbeck  sportsmen  that  these 
girls  were  then  there.  If  they  rode  over  everything  that 
day, — fence  or  rail,  brook  or  bank, — it  was  because  the 
cliasse  to  them  was  less  an  cerf  than  au  mart. 

Such  was  the  case.  The  old  colonel  had  left  England 
because  he  preferred  the  Channel  to  the  Fleet;  the  glorious 
liberty  which  Englishmen  are  so  proud  of  would  have 
been  violated  in  his  person  had  he  remained.  His  fail- 
ing, like  many  others,  was  that  he  had  lived  “not  wisely, 
but  too  well;”  and,  in  short,  however  cold  the  climate, 
London  would  have  proved  too  hot  for  him  had  he  stayed 
another  day  in  it. 


250 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


What  a deluge  of  such  people  float  over  the  Continent, 
living  well  and  what  is  called  “most  respectably;  ” dining 
at  embassies  and  dancing  at  courts;  holding  their  heads 
very  high,  too, — most  scrupulous  about  acquaintances, 
and  exclusive  in  all  their  intimacies!  They  usually  pre- 
fer foreign  society  to  that  of  their  countrymen,  for  obvious 
reasons.  Few  Frenchmen  read  the  “Gazette.”  I never 
heard  of  a German  who  knew  anything  about  the  list  of 
outlaws.  Of  course  they  have  no  more  to  say  to  English 
preserves,  and  so  they  take  out  a license  to  shoot  over  the 
foreign  manors;  and  though  a marquis  or  a count  are  but 
“small  deer,”  it’s  the  only  game  left,  and  they  make  the 
best  of  it. 

At  last  the  host  appeared,  attired  in  a scarlet  frock,  and 
wearing  a badge  at  his  buttonhole  something  about  the 
shape  and  color  of  a new  penny-piece.  He  was  followed 
by  above  a dozen  others,  similarly  habited,  minus  the 
badge;  and  then  came  about  twenty  more,  dressed  in  green 
frocks,  with  red  collars  and  cuffs, — a species  of  smaller 
deities,  who  I learned  were  called  “Aspirants,”  though 
to  what  they  aspired,  where  it  was,  or  when  they  hoped  for 
it,  nobody  could  inform  me.  Then  there  were  piqueurs  and 
grooms  and  whippers-in  without  number,  all  noisy  and  all 
boisterous;  about  twenty  couple  of  fox-hounds  giving 
tongue,  and  a due  proportion  of  the  scarlet  folk  blowing 
away  at  that  melodious  pipe,  the  cor  de  chasse. 

With  this  goodly  company  I moved  forward,  “alone,  but 
in  a crowd;  ” for,  unhappily,  my  want  of  tact  as  a sporting 
character  the  previous  evening  had  damaged  me  seriously 
witli  the  hunting  youths,  and  Mademoiselle  Laura  showed 
no  desire  to  accept  the  companionship  her  worthy  father 
had  selected  for  her.  “No  matter,”  thought  I,  “there’s 
a great  deal  to  see  here,  and  I can  do  without  chatting  in  so 
stirring  a scene  as  this.” 

Her  companion  was  the  Comte  d’Espagne,  an  admirable 
specimen  of  what  the  French  call  “Tigre;  ” for  be  it  known 
that  the  country  which  once  obtained  a reputation  little 
short  of  ludicrous  for  its  excess  of  courtesy  and  the  sur- 
plusage of  its  ceremony  has  now,  in  the  true  spirit  of 
reaction,  adopted  a degree  of  abruptness  we  should  call 


THE  CHASE. 


251 


rudeness,  and  a species  of  cold  effrontery  we  might  mis- 
take for  insolence.  The  disciples  of  this  new  school  are 
significantly  called  “Young  France,”  and  are  distinguished 
for  length  of  hair  and  beard,  a look  of  frowning  solemnity 
and  mock  pre-occupation,  very  well-fitting  garments  and 
yellow  gloves.  These  gentlemen  are  sparing  of  speech, 
and  more  so  of  gesture.  They  give  one  to  understand  that 
some  onerous  deed  of  regeneration  is  expected  at  their 
hands,  some  revival  of  the  old  spirit  of  the  nation;  though 
in  what  way  it  is  to  originate  in  curled  mustaches  and 
lacquered  boots  is  still  a mystery  to  the  many.  But 
enough  of  them  now ; only  of  these  was  the  Comte 
d’Espagne. 

I had  almost  forgotten  to  speak  of  one  part  of  our 
cortege,  which  should  certainly  not  be  omitted.  This  was 
a wooden  edifice  on  wheels,  drawn  by  a pair  of  horses  at  a 
brisk  rate  at  the  tail  of  the  procession.  At  first  it  occurred 
to  me  that  it  might  be  an  ambulant  dog-kennel,  to  receive 
the  hounds  on  their  return.  Then  I suspected  it  to  be  a 
walking  hospital  for  wounded  sportsmen;  and  certainly  I 
could  not  but  approve  of  the  idea,  as  I called  to  mind  the 
position  of  any  unlucky  chasseur,  in  the  event  of  a fall, 
with  his  fifteen  feet  of  “metal  main”  around  him,  and  I 
only  hoped  that  a plumber  accompanied  the  expedition. 
My  humanity,  however,  led  me  astray;  the  pagoda  was 
destined  for  the  accommodation  of  a stag,  who  always 
assisted  at  the  chasse,  whenever  no  other  game  could  be 
started.  This  venerable  beast,  some  five-and-twenty  years 
in  the  service,  was  like  a stock  piece  in  the  theatres, 
which,  always  ready,  could  be  produced  without  a mo- 
ment’s notice.  Here  was  no  rehearsal  requisite  if  a prima 
donna  was  sulky  or  a tenor  was  drunk;  if  the  fox  would  n’t 
show  or  the  deer  were  shy,  there  was  the  stag,  perfectly 
prepared  for  a pleasant  canter  of  a few  miles,  and  ready, 
if  no  one  was  intemperately  precipitate,  to  give  a very 
agreeable  morning’s  sport.  His  perfections,  however, 
went  further  than  this;  for  he  was  trained  to  cross  the 
high-road  at  all  convenient  thoroughfares,  occasionally 
taking  the  main  streets  of  a village  or  the  market-place 
of  a bourg,  swimming  whenever  the  water  was  shallow 


252 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


enough  to  follow  him  on  horseback,  and  giving  up  the 
ghost  at  the  blast  of  a grand  maitre’s  bugle  with  an  accu- 
racy as  unerring  as  though  he  had  performed  at  Franconi’s. 

Unhappily  for  me,  I was  not  fated  to  wdtness  an  exhibi- 
tion of  his  powers ; for  scarcely  had  we  emerged  from  the 
wood  when  the  dogs  were  laid  on,  and  soon  after  found  a 
fox. 

For  some  time  the  scene  was  an  animated  one,  as  every 
Fleming  seemed  to  pin  his  faith  on  some  favorite  dog;  and 
it  was  rather  amusing  to  witness  the  eagerness  with  which 
each  followed  the  movements  of  his  adopted  animal,  cheer- 
ing him  on,  and  encouraging  him  to  the  top  of  his  bent. 
At  last  the  word  “ Away ! ” was  given,  and  suddenly  the 
dogs  broke  cover,  and  made  across  the  plain  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a great  wood,  or  rather  forest,  above  a mile  off. 
The  country,  happily  for  most  of  us  (I  know  it  was  so  for 
me)  was  an  open  surface  of  gentle  undulation,  stubble  and 
turnips  the  only  impediments,  and  clay  soft  enough  to 
make  a fall  easy. 

The  sight  was  so  far  exhilarating  that  red  coats  in  a 
gallop  have  always  a pleasant  effect;  besides  which,  the 
very  concourse  of  riders  looks  well.  However,  even  as 
unsportsmanlike  an  eye  as  mine  could  detect  the  flaws  in 
jockey  ship  about  me, — the  fierce  rushings  of  the  gentle- 
men who  pushed  through  the  deepest  ground  with  a loose 
rein,  flogging  manfully  the  while;  the  pendulous  motions 
of  others  between  the  mane  and  the  haunches,  with  every 
stride  of  the  beast. 

But  I had  little  time  for  such  speculations;  the  hour  of  my 
own  trial  was  approaching.  The  roan  was  getting  trouble- 
some, the  pace  was  gradually  working  up  her  mettle;  and 
she  had  given  tbi’ee  or  four  preparatory  bounds,  as  thoxigh 
to  see  whether  she  ’d  part  company  with  me  before  she  ran 
away  or  not.  My  own  calculations  at  the  moment  were 
not  very  dissimilar;  I was  meditating  a rupture  of  the 
partnership  too.  The  matrix  of  a full-length  figure  of 
Arthur  O’Leary  in  red  clay  was  the  extent  of  any  damage 
1 could  receive,  and  I only  looked  for  a convenient  spot 
where  I might  fall  unseen.  As  I turned  my  head  on  every 
side,  hoping  for  some  secluded  nook,  some  devil  of  a 


THE  CHASE. 


253 


hunter,  by  way  of  directing  the  dogs,  gave  a blast  of  his 
brass  instrument  about  a hundred  yards  before  me.  The 
thing  was  now  settled;  the  roan  gave  a whirl  of  her  long 
vicious  tail,  plunged  fearfully,  and  throwing  down  her 
head  and  twisting  it  to  one  side,  as  if  to  have  a peep  at 
my  confusion,  away  she  went.  From  having  formed  one 
of  the  rear  guard,  I now  closed  up  with  the  main  body,  — 
“aspirants  ” all,  — through  whom  I dashed  like  a catapult, 
and  notwithstanding  repeated  shouts  of  “Pull  in,  sir!” 
“Holdback!”  etc.,  I continued  my  onward  course;  a few 
seconds  more  and  I was  in  the  thick  of  the  scarlet  coats, 
my  beast  at  the  stretch  of  her  speed,  and  caring  nothing 
for  the  bridle.  Amid  a shower  of  sacres  that  fell  upon  me 
like  hail,  I sprang  through  them,  making  the  “ red  ones  ” 
black  with  every  stroke  of  my  gallop.  Leaving  them  far 
behind,  I flew  past  the  grand  matt  re  himself,  who  rode  in 
the  van,  almost  upsetting  him  by  a side  spring,  as  I passed, 
— a malediction  reaching  me  as  I went;  but  the  forest  soon 
received  me  in  its  dark  embrace,  and  I saw  no  more. 

It  was  at  first  a source  of  consolation  to  me  to  think 
that  every  stride  removed  me  from  the  reach  of  those 
whose  denunciations  I had  so  unfortunately  incurred; 
grand  maitre , chasseurs,  and  “aspirants,  ’ — they  were  all 
behind  me.  Ay,  for  that  matter,  so  were  the  dogs  and  the 
piqueurs,  and,  for  aught  I knew,  the  fox  with  them. 
When  I discovered,  however,  that  the  roan  continued 
her  speed  still  unabated,  I began  to  be  somewhat  discon- 
certed. It  was  true  the  ground  was  perfectly  smooth  and 
safe,  — a long  allee  of  the  wood,  with  turf  shorn  close  as  a 
pleasure  ground.  I pulled  and  sawed  the  bit,  I jerked  the 
bridle,  and  performed  all  the  manual  exercise  I could  re- 
member as  advised  in  such  extremities,  but  to  no  use.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  some  confounded  echo  started  the  beast, 
and  incited  her  to  increased  speed.  Just  as  this  notion 
struck  me,  I heard  a voice  behind  cry  out,  — 

“Do  hold  in!  Try  and  hold  in,  Mr.  O’Leary!  ” 

I turned  my  head,  and  there  was  Laura,  scarce  a length 
behind,  her  thoroughbred  straining  every  sinew  to  come 
up.  No  one  else  was  in  sight,  and  there  we  were,  gallop- 
ing like  mad,  with  the  wood  all  to  ourselves. 


254 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


I can  very  well  conceive  why  the  second  horse  in  a race 
does  his  best  to  get  foremost,  if  it  were  only  the  indulgence 
of  a very  natural  piece  of  curiosity  to  see  what  the  other 
has  been  running  for;  but  why  the  first  one  only  goes  the 
faster  because  there  are  others  behind  him,  that  is  a dead 
puzzle  to  me.  But  so  it  was;  my  ill-starred  beast  never 
seemed  to  have  put  forth  her  full  powers  till  she  was  fol- 
lowed. “Ventre  a terre,”  as  the  French  say,  was  now  the 
pace ; and  though  from  time  to  time  Laura  would  cry  out 
to  me  to  hold  back,  I could  almost  swear  I heard  her 
laughing  at  my  efforts.  Meanwhile  the  wood  was  becom- 
ing thicker  and  closer,  and  the  allee  narrower  and  evi- 
dently less  travelled.  Still  it  seemed  to  have  no  end  or 
exit;  scarcely  had  we  rounded  one  turn  when  a vista  of 
miles  would  seem  to  stretch  away  before  us,  passing  over 
which,  another,  as  long  again,  would  appear. 

After  about  an  hour’s  hard  galloping,  if  I dare  form  any 
conjecture  as  to  the  flight  of  time,  I perceived  with  a feel- 
ing of  triumph  that  the  roan  was  relaxing  somewhat  in  her 
stride;  and  that  she  was  beginning  to  evince,  by  an  up- 
and-down  kind  of  gait,  what  sailors  call  a “fore-and-aft” 
motion,  that  she  was  getting  enough  of  it.  I turned  and 
saw  Laura  about  twenty  yards  behind,  — her  thoroughbred 
dead  beat,  and  only  able  to  sling  along  at  that  species  of 
lobbing  canter  blood-cattle  can  accomplish  under  any  exi- 
gency. With  a bold  effort  I pulled  up  short,  and  she  came 
alongside  of  me;  and  before  I could  summon  courage  to 
meet  the  reproaches  I expected  for  having  been  the  cause 
of  her  runaway,  she  relieved  my  mind  by  a burst  of  as 
merry  and  good-tempered  laughter  as  ever  I listened  to. 
The  emotion  was  contagious,  and  so  I laughed  too,  and  it 
was  full  five  minutes  before  either  of  us  could  speak. 

“Well,  Mr.  O’Leary,  I hope  you  know  where  we  are,” 
said  she,  drying  her  eyes,  where  the  sparkling  drops  of 
mirth  were  standing,  “for  I assure  you  I don’t.” 

“Oh,  perfectly,”  replied  I,  as  my  eye  caught  a board 
nailed  against  a tree,  on  which  some  very  ill-painted  letters 
announced  “La  route  de  Bouvigne,”  — “we  are  on  the  high 
road  to  Bouvigne,  wherever  that  may  be.” 

“Bouvigne!  ” exclaimed  she,  in  an  accent  of  some  alarm; 


THE  CHASE. 


255 


“why,  it’s  five  leagues  from  the  chateau!  I travelled 
there  once  by  the  high  road.  Ilow  are  we  ever  to  get 
back?” 

That  was  the  very  question  I was  then  canvassing  in  my 
own  mind,  without  a thought  of  how  it  was  to  be  solved. 
However,  I answered  with  an  easy  indifference,  “Oh, 
nothing  easier;  we’ll  take  a caliche  at  Bouvigne.” 

“But  they  ’ve  none.” 

“Well,  then,  fresh  horses.” 

“There’s  not  a horse  in  the  place;  it’s  a little  village 
near  the  Meuse,  surrounded  with  tall  granite  rocks,  and 
only  remarkable  for  its  ruined  castle,  the  ancient  schloss 
of  Philip  de  Bouvigne.” 

“How  interesting!”  said  I,  delighted  to  catch  at  any- 
thing which  should  give  the  conversation  a turn;  “and 
who  was  Philip  de  Bouvigne?” 

“Philip,”  said  the  lady,  “was  the  second  or  third  count, 
I forget  which,  of  the  name.  The  chronicles  say  that  he 
was  the  handsomest  and  most  accomplished  youth  of  the 
time.  Nowhere  could  he  meet  his  equal  at  joust  or  tourna- 
ment; while  his  skill  in  arms  was  the  least  of  his  gifts,  — 
he  was  a poet  and  a musician.  In  fact,  if  you  were  only 
to  believe  his  historians,  he  was  the  most  dangerous  per- 
son for  the  young  ladies  of  those  days  to  meet  with.  Not 
that  he  ran  away  with  them,  snr  la  grande  route.”  As  she 
said  this,  a burst  of  laughing  stopped  her;  and  it  was  one 
I could  really  forgive,  though  myself  the  object  of  it. 
“However,”  resumed  she,  “I  believe  he  was  just  as  bad. 
Well,  to  pursue  my  story,  when  Philip  was  but  eighteen, 
it  chanced  that  a party  of  warriors  bound  for  the  Holy 
Land  came  past  the  Castle  of  Bouvigne,  and  of  course 
passed  the  night  there.  From  them,  many  of  whom  had 
already  been  in  Palestine,  Philip  heard  the  wondrous 
stories  the  crusaders  ever  brought  back  of  combats  and 
encounters,  of  the  fearful  engagements  with  the  infidels 
and  the  glorious  victories  of  the  Cross.  And  at  length,  so 
excited  did  his  mind  become  by  the  narrations,  that  he 
resolved  on  the  spot  to  set  out  for  the  Holy  Land,  and  see 
with  his  own  eyes  the  wonderful  things  they  had  been 
telling  him. 


256 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“This  resolution  could  not  fail  of  being  applauded  by 
the  rest,  and  by  none  was  it  met  with  such  decided  ap- 
proval as  by  Henri  de  Bethune,  a young  Liegeois,  then 
setting  out  on  his  first  crusade,  who  could  not  help  extoll- 
ing Philip’s  bravery,  and  above  all  his  devotion  in  the 
great  cause,  in  quitting  his  home  and  his  young  and  beau- 
tiful wife;  for  I must  tell  you,  as  indeed  I ought  to  have 
told  you  before,  he  had  been  but  a few  weeks  married  to 
the  lovely  Alice  de  Franchemont,  the  only  daughter  of  the 
old  Graf  de  Franchemont,  of  whose  castle  you  may  see  the 
ruins  near  Chaude  Fontaine.” 

I nodded  assent,  and  she  went  on. 

“Of  course  you  can  imagine  the  dreadful  grief  of  the 
young  countess  when  her  husband  broke  to  her  his  deter- 
mination. If  I were  a novelist  I ’d  tell  you  of  tears  and 
entreaties  and  sighs  and  faintings,  of  promises  and  pledges 
and  vows,  and  so  forth;  for,  indeed,  it  was  a very  sorrow- 
ful piece  of  business,  as  she  didn’t  at  all  fancy  passing 
some  three  or  four  years  alone  in  the  old  keep  at  Bouvigne, 
with  no  society,  not  one  single  friend  to  speak  to.  At  first, 
indeed,  she  would  not  hear  of  it;  and  it  was  only  at  length 
when  Henri  de  Bethune  undertook  to  plead  for  him,  — for 
he  kindly  remained  several  days  at  the  chateau,  to  assist 
his  friend  at  this  conjuncture, — that  she  gave  way,  and 
consented.  Still,  her  consent  was  wrung  from  her  against 
her  convictions,  and  she  was  by  no  means  satisfied  that  the 
arguments  she  yielded  to  were  a whit  too  sound.  And 
this,  let  me  remark,  en  passant , is  a most  dangerous 
species  of  assent,  when  given  by  a lady;  and  one  she 
always  believes  to  be  something  of  the  nature  of  certain 
Catholic  vows,  which  are  only  binding  while  you  believe 
them  reasonable  and  just.” 

“Is  that  really  so?”  interrupted  I.  “Do  you,  indeed, 
give  me  so  low  a standard  of  female  fidelity  as  this?” 

“If  women  are  sometimes  false,”  replied  she,  “it  is 
because  men  are  never  true;  but  I must  go  on  with  my 
tale.  — Away  went  Count  Philip,  and  with  him  his  friend 
De  Bethune,  — the  former,  if  the  fact  were  known,  just  as 
low-spirited,  when  the  time  came,  as  the  countess  herself. 
But,  then,  he  had  the  double  advantage  that  he  had  a 


THE  CHASE. 


257 


friend  to  talk  with  and  make  participator  of  his  sorrows; 
besides  being  the  one  leaving,  not  left.” 

“I  don’t  know,”  interrupted  I at  this  moment,  “that 
you  are  right  there;  I think  that  the  associations  which 
cling  to  the  places  where  we  have  been  happy  are  a good 
requital  for  the  sorrowful  memories  they  may  call  up. 

1 ’d  rather  linger  around  the  spot  consecrated  by  the  spirit 
of  past  pleasure,  and  dream  over  again,  hour  by  hour,  day 
by  day,  the  bliss  1 knew  there,  than  break  up  the  charm  of 
such  memories  by  the  vulgar  incidents  of  travel  and  the 
common-place  adventures  of  a journey.” 

“There  I differ  from  you  completely,”  replied  she.  “All 
your  reflections  and  reminiscences,  give  them  as  fine  names 
as  you  will,  are  nothing  but  sighings  and  repinings  for 
what  cannot  come  back  again;  and  such  things  only  injure 
the  temper,  and  spoil  the  complexion,  whereas  — But  what 
are  you  laughing  at?” 

“ I was  smiling  at  your  remark,  which  has  only  a femi- 
nine application.” 

“ How  teasing  you  are ! I declare  I ’ll  argue  no  more 
with  you.  Do  you  want  to  hear  my  story?” 

“Of  all  things;  I ’in  greatly  interested  in  it.” 

“Well,  then,  you  must  not  interrupt  me  any  more. 
Now,  where  was  I?  You  actually  made  me  forget  where 
I stopped.” 

“ You  were  just  at  the  point  where  they  set  out,  Philip 
and  his  friend,  for  the  Holy  Land.” 

“You  must  not  expect  from  me  any  spirit-stirring  narra- 
tive of  the  events  in  Palestine.  Indeed,  I ’in  not  aware  if 
the  ‘ Chronique  de  Flandre,  ’ from  which  I take  my  tale, 
says  anything  very  particular  about  Philip  de  Bouvigne’s 
performances.  Of  course  they  were  in  accordance  with 
his  former  reputation:  he  killed  his  Saracens,  like  a true 
knight,  — that  there  can  be  no  doubt  of.  As  for  Henri  de 
Bethune,  before  the  year  was  over  he  was  badly  wounded, 
and  left  on  the  field  of  battle,  where  some  said  he  expired 
soon  after,  others  averring  that  he  was  carried  away  to 
slavery.  Be  that  as  it  might,  Philip  continued  his  career 
with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a warrior  and  a devotee,  a 
worthy  son  of  the  Church,  and  a brave  soldier,  — unfortu- 

17 


258 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


nately,  however,  forgetting  the  poor  countess  he  had  left 
behind  him,  pining  away  her  youth  at  the  barred  casements 
of  the  old  chateau ; straining  her  eyes  from  day  to  day  along 
the  narrow  causeway  that  led  to  the  castle,  and  where  no 
charger’s  hoof  re-echoed,  as  of  old,  to  tell  of  the  coming 
of  her  lord.  Very  bad  treatment,  you ’ll  confess;  and  so, 
with  your  permission,  we  ’ll  keep  her  company  for  a little 
while.  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Bouvigne,  as  some  widows 
will  do,  only  became  the  prettier  from  desertion.  Her 
traits  of  beauty  mellowed  by  a tender  melancholy,  with- 
out being  marked  too  deeply  by  grief,  assumed  an  imag- 
inative character,  or  wrhat  men  mistake  for  it.” 

“Indeed!  ” said  I,  catching  at  the  confession. 

“Well,  I’m  sure  it  is  so,”  replied  she.  “In  the  great 
majority  of  cases  you  are  totally  ignorant  of  what  is  pass- 
ing in  a woman’s  mind.  The  girl  that  seemed  all  anima- 
tion to-day  may  have  an  air  of  deep  depression  to-morrow, 
and  of  downright  wildness  the  next,  simply  by  changing 
her  coiffure  from  ringlets  to  braids,  and  from  a bandeau  to 
a state  of  dishevelled  disorder.  A little  flattery  of  your- 
selves, artfully  and  well  done,  and  you  are  quite  prepared 
to  believe  anything.  In  any  case,  the  countess  was  very 
pretty  and  very  lonely. 

“In  those  good  days  when  gentlemen  left  home,  there 
were  neither  theatres  nor  concerts  to  amuse  their  poor 
neglected  wives;  they  had  no  operas  nor  balls  nor  soirees 
nor  promenades.  No;  their  only  resource  was  to  work 
away  at  some  huge  piece  of  landscape  embroidery,  which, 
begun  in  childhood,  occupied  a whole  life,  and  transmitted 
a considerable  labor  of  background  and  foliage  to  the  next 
generation.  The  only  pleasant  people  in  those  times,  it 
seems  to  me,  were  the  jongleurs  and  the  pilgrims : they 
went  about  the  world  fulfilling  the  destinies  of  news- 
papers; they  chronicled  the  little  events  of  the  day, — 
births,  marriages,  deaths,  etc., — and  must  have  been  a 
great  comfort  on  a winter’s  evening. 

“Well,  it  so  chanced  that  as  the  countess  sat  at  her 
window  one  evening,  as  usual,  watching  the  sun  go  down, 
she  beheld  a palmer  coming  slowly  along  up  the  causeway, 
leaning  on  his  staff,  and  seeming  sorely  tired  and  weary  — 


THE  CHASE. 


259 


But  see,”  cried  Laura,  at  this  moment,  as  we  gained  the 
crest  of  a gentle  acclivity,  “yonder  is  Bouvigne;  it  is  a 
fine  thing  even  yet.” 

We  both  reined  in  our  horses,  the  better  to  enjoy  the 
prospect;  and  certainly  it  was  a grand  one.  Behind  us, 
and  stretching  for  miles  in  either  direction,  was  the  great 
forest  we  had  been  traversing;  the  old  Ardennes  had  been 
a forest  in  the  times  of  Csesar,  its  narrow  pathways  echo- 
ing to  the  tread  of  Roman  legions.  In  front  was  a richly 
cultivated  plain,  undulating  gently  towards  the  Meuse, 
whose  silver  current  wound  round  it  like  a garter,  — the 
opposite  bank  being  formed  by  an  abrupt  wall  of  naked 
rocks  of  gray  granite,  sparkling  with  its  brilliant  hues, 
and  shining  doubly  in  the  calm  stream  at  its  foot.  On 
one  of  the  highest  cliffs,  above  an  angle  of  the  river,  and 
commanding  both  reaches  of  the  stream  for  a considerable 
way,  stood  Bouvigne.  Two  great  square  towers  rising 
above  a battlemented  wall,  pierced  with  long  loopholes, 
stood  out  against  the  clear  sky;  one  of  them,  taller  than 
the  other,  was  surmounted  by  a turret  at  the  angle,  from 
the  top  of  which  something  projected  laterally,  like  a 
beam. 

“Do  you  see  that  piece  of  timber  yonder?”  said  Laura. 
“Yes,”  said  I;  “it’s  the  very  thing  I’ve  been  looking 
at,  and  wondering  what  it  could  mean.” 

“Carry  your  eye  downward,”  said  she,  “and  try  if  you 
can’t  make  out  a low  wall  connecting  two  masses  of  rock 
together,  far,  far  down:  do  you  see  it?” 

“I  see  a large  archway,  with  some  ivy  over  it.” 

“That’s  it;  that  was  the  great  entrance  to  the  schloss; 
before  it  is  the  fosse,  — a huge  ditch  cut  in  the  solid  rock, 
so  deep  as  to  permit  the  water  of  the  Meuse,  when  flooded, 
to  flow  into  it.  Well,  now,  if  you  look  again,  you’ll  see 
that  the  great  beam  above  hangs  exactly  over  that  spot. 
It  was  one  of  the  rude  defences  of  the  time,  and  intended, 
by  means  of  an  iron  basket  which  hung  from  its  extremity, 
to  hurl  great  rocks  and  stones  upon  any  assailant.  The 
mechanism  can  still  be  traced  by  which  it  was  moved  back 
and  loaded ; the  piece  of  rope  which  opened  the  basket  at 
each  discharge  of  its  contents  was  there  not  many  years 


260 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


ago.  There ’s  a queer,  uncouth  representation  of  the  pan - 
ier  de  morte  as  it  is  called,  in  the  ‘Chronique,  ’ which  you 
can  see  in  the  old  library  at  Kochepied.  But  here  we  are 
already  at  the  ferry.” 

As  she  spoke  we  had  just  reached  the  bank  of  the  Meuse, 
and  in  front  was  a beautifully  situated  little  village,  which, 
escarped  in  the  mountain,  presented  a succession  of  houses 
at  different  elevations,  all  looking  towards  the  stream. 
They  were  mostly  covered  with  vines  and  honeysuckles, 
and  with  the  picturesque  outlines  of  gable  and  roof,  dia- 
mond windows  and  rustic  porches,  had  a very  pleasing 
effect. 

As  I looked,  I had  little  difficulty  in  believing  that  they 
were  not  a very  equestrian  people,  — the  little  pathways 
that  traversed  their  village  being  inaccessible  save  to  foot- 
passengers,  frequently  ascending  by  steps  cut  in  the  rock, 
or  by  rude  staircases  of  wood  which  hung  here  and  there 
over  the  edge  of  the  cliff  in  anything  but  a tempting  way, 
the  more  so,  as  they  trembled  and  shook  with  every  foot 
that  passed  over  them.  Little  mindful  of  this,  the  peas- 
ants might  now  be  seen  leaning  over  their  frail  barriers, 
and  staring  at  the  unwonted  apparition  of  two  figures  on 
horseback,  while  I was  endeavoring,  by  signs  and  gestures, 
to  indicate  our  wish  to  cross  over. 

At  last  a huge  raft  appeared  to  move  from  beneath  the 
willows  of  the  opposite  bank,  and,  by  the  aid  of  a rope 
fastened  across  the  stream,  two  men  proceeded  slowly  to 
ferry  the  great  platform  over.  Leading  our  horses  cau- 
tiously forward,  we  embarked  in  this  frail  craft,  and  landed 
safely  in  Bouvigne. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


A NARROW  ESCAPE. 

“Will  you  please  to  tell  me,  Mr.  O’Leary,”  said  Laura, 
in  the  easy  tone  of  one  who  asked  for  information’s  sake, 
“what  are  your  plans  here;  for  up  to  this  moment  I only 
perceive  that  we  have  been  increasing  the  distance  between 
us  and  Rochepied.” 

“ Quite  true,  ” said  I ; “ but  you  know  we  agreed  it  was 
impossible  to  hope  to  find  our  way  back  through  the  forest. 
Every  allee  here  has  not  only  its  brother,  but  a large 
family,  so  absolutely  alike  no  one  could  distinguish  be- 
tween them ; we  might  wander  for  weeks  without  extricat- 
ing ourselves.” 

“I  know  all  that,”  said  she,  somewhat  pettishly;  “still 
my  question  remains  unanswered.  What  do  you  mean  to 
do  here? ” 

“In  the  first  place,”  said  I,  with  the  affected  precision 
of  one  who  had  long  since  resolved  on  his  mode  of  proceed- 
ing, “ we  ’ll  dine.” 

I stopped  here  to  ascertain  her  sentiments  on  this  part 
of  my  arrangement.  She  gave  a short  nod,  and  I pro- 
ceeded. “Having  dined,”  said  I,  “we’ll  obtain  horses 
and  a caleche,  if  such  can  be  found,  for  Rochepied.” 

“ 1 ’ve  told  you  already  there  are  no  such  things  here. 
They  never  see  a carriage  of  any  kind  from  year’s  end  to 
year’s  end;  and  there  is  not  a horse  in  the  whole  village.” 

“ Perhaps,  then,  there  may  be  a chateau  near,  where,  on 
making  known  our  mishap,  we  might  be  able  — ” 

“Oh,  that’s  very  simple,  as  far  as  you’re  concerned,” 
said  she,  with  a saucy  smile;  “but  I’d  just  as  soon  not 
have  this  adventure  published  over  the  whole  country.” 

Ila!  by  Jove,  thought  I,  there’s  a consideration  com- 
pletely overlooked  by  me;  and  so  I became  silent  and 


262 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


thoughtful,  and  spoke  not  another  word  as  we  led  our 
horses  up  the  little  rocky  causeway  towards  the  Toison 
d’Or. 

If  we  did  not  admire  the  little  auberge  of  the  Golden 
Fleece,  truly  the  fault  was  rather  our  own  than  from  any 
want  of  merit  in  the  little  hostelry  itself.  Situated  on  a 
rocky  promontory  on  the  river,  it  was  built  actually  over 
the  stream,  — the  door  fronting  it,  and  approachable  by  a 
little  wooden  gallery,  along  which  a range  of  orange-trees 
and  arbutus  was  tastefully  disposed,  scenting  the  whole 
air  with  their  fragrance.  As  we  walked  along  we  caught 
glimpses  of  several  rooms  within,  neatly  and  even  hand- 
somely furnished,  — and  of  one  salon  in  particular,  where 
books  and  music  lay  scattered  on  the  tables,  with  that  air 
of  habitation  so  pleasant  to  look  on. 

So  far  from  our  appearance  in  a neighborhood  thus 
remote  and  secluded  creating  any  surprise,  both  host  and 
hostess  received  us  with  the  most  perfect  ease,  blended 
with  a mixture  of  cordial  civility  very  acceptable  at  the 
moment. 

“We  wish  to  dine  at  once,”  said  I,  as  I handed  Laura 
to  a chair. 

“And  to  know  in  what  way  we  can  reach  Rochepied,” 
said  she;  “our  horses  are  weary  and  not  able  for  the 
road.” 

“For  the  dinner,  Mademoiselle,  nothing  is  easier;  but 
as  to  getting  forward  to-night  — ” 

“Oh,  of  course  I mean  to-night,  — at  once.” 

“Ah,  voila,”  said  he,  scratching  his  forehead  in  bewil- 
derment; “we’re  not  accustomed  to  that,  never.  People 
generally  stop  a day  or  two;  some  spend  a week  here,  and 
have  horses  from  Dinant  to  meet  them.” 

“A  week  here!  ” exclaimed  she;  “and  what  in  Heaven’s 
name  can  they  do  here  for  a week?” 

“ Why,  there ’s  the  chateau,  Mademoiselle,  — the  chateau 
of  Philip  de  Bouvigne,and  the  gardens  terraced  in  the  rock; 
and  there ’s  the  well  of  St.  Sevres,  and  the  lie  de  Notre 
Dame  aux  bois;  and  then  there’s  such  capital  fishing  in 
the  stream,  with  abundance  of  trout.” 

“Oh,  delightful,  I’m  sure,”  said  she,  impatiently;  “but 


A NARROW  ESCAPE. 


263 


we  wish  to  get  on.  So  just  set  your  mind  to  that,  like  a 
worthy  man.” 

“Well,  we’ll  see  what  can  be  done,”  replied  he;  “and 
before  dinner ’s  over,  perhaps  I may  find  some  means  to 
forward  you.” 

With  this  he  left  the  room,  leaving  mademoiselle  and 
myself  tete-a-tete.  And  here  let  me  confess,  never  did  any 
man  feel  his  situation  more  awkwardly  than  I did  mine  at 
that  moment;  and  before  any  of  my  younger  and  more 
ardent  brethren  censure  me,  let  me  at  least  “ show  cause  ” 
in  my  defence.  First,  1 myself,  however  unintentionally, 
had  brought  Mademoiselle  Laura  into  her  present  embar- 
rassment; but  for  me  and  the  confounded  roan  she  had 
been  at  that  moment  cantering  away  pleasantly  with  the 
Comte  d’Espagne  beside  her,  listening  to  his  flearettes  and 
receiving  his  attentions.  Secondly,  I was,  partly  from 
bashfulness,  partly  from  fear,  little  able  to  play  the  part 
my  present  emergency  demanded,  which  should  either 
have  been  one  of  downright  indifference  and  ease,  or 
something  of  a more  tender  nature,  which  indeed  the 
very  pretty  companion  of  my  travels  might  have  perfectly 
justified. 

“Well,”  said  she,  after  a considerable  pause,  “this  is 
about  the  most  ridiculous  scrape  I ’ve  ever  been  involved 
in.  What  will  they  think  at  the  chateau?” 

“If  they  saw  your  horse  when  he  bolted — ” 

“Of  course  they  did,”  said  she;  “but  what  could  they 
do?  The  Comte  d’Espagne  is  always  mounted  on  a slow 
horse:  he  could  n’t  overtake  me;  then  the  muttres  couldn’t 
pass  the  (jrand  mnitre .” 

“What!”  cried  I,  in  amazement;  “I  don’t  comprehend 
you  perfectly.” 

“It’s  quite  clear,  nevertheless,”  replied  she;  “but  I see 
you  don’t  know  the  rules  of  the  chasse  in  Flanders.” 

With  this  she  entered  into  a detail  of  the  laws  of  the 
hunting-field,  which  more  than  once  threw  me  into  fits  of 
laughter.  It  seemed,  then,  that  the  code  decided  that  each 
horseman  who  followed  the  hounds  should  not  be  left  to 
the  wilfulness  of  his  horse  or  the  aspirings  of  his  ambition, 
as  to  the  place  he  occupied  in  the  chase.  It  was  no  mo- 


264 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


mentary  superiority  of  skill  or  steed,  no  display  of  jockey- 
ship,  no  blood,  that  decided  this  momentous  question. 
No;  that  was  arranged  on  principles  far  less  vacillating 
and  more  permanent  at  the  commencement  of  the  hunting- 
season,  by  which  it  was  laid  down  as  a rule  that  the  grand 
maitre  was  always  to  ride  first.  His  pace  might  be  fast  or 
it  might  be  slow,  but  his  place  was  there.  After  him  came 
the  maitres , the  people  in  scarlet,  who  in  right  of  paying 
double  subscription  were  thus  costumed  and  thus  privi- 
leged; while  the  “aspirants”  in  green  followed  last,  their 
smaller  contribution  only  permitting  them  to  see  so  much 
of  the  sport  as  their  respectful  distance  opened  to  them,  — 
and  thus  that  indiscriminate  rush,  so  observable  in  our 
hunting-fields,  was  admirably  avoided  and  provided 
against.  It  was  no  headlong  piece  of  reckless  daring, 
no  impetuous  dash  of  bold  horsemanship;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  was  a decorous  and  stately  canter, — not  after 
hounds,  but  after  an  elderly  gentleman  in  a red  coat  and 
a brass  tube,  who  was  taking  a quiet  airing  in  the  pleasing 
delusion  that  he  was  hunting  an  animal  unknown.  Woe 
unto  the  man  who  forgot  his  place  in  the  procession ! You 
might  as  well  walk  into  dinner  before  your  host,  under  the 
pretence  that  you  were  a more  nimble  pedestrian. 

Besides  this,  there  were  subordinate  rules  to  no  end. 
Certain  notes  on  the  cor  de  chasse  were  royalties  of  the 
grand  maitre  ; the  maitres  possessed  others  as  their  privi- 
leges which  no  “aspirant”  dare  venture  on.  There  were 
quavers  for  one,  and  semiquavers  for  the  other;  and,  in 
fact,  a most  complicated  system  of  legislation  compre- 
hended every  incident,  and  I believe  every  accident,  of 
the  sport,  so  much  that  I can’t  trust  my  memory  as  to 
whether  the  wretched  “aspirants  ” were  not  limited  to  tum- 
bling in  one  particular  direction,  — which,  if  so,  must  have 
been  somewhat  of  a tyranny,  seeing  they  were  but  men, 
and  Belgians. 

“This  might  seem  all  very  absurd  and  very  fabulous  if 
I referred  to  a number  of  years  back;  but  when  I say  that 
the  code  still  exists,  in  the  year  of  grace,  1856,  what  will 
they  say  at  Melton  or  Grantham?  So  you  may  imagine,” 
said  Laura,  on  concluding  her  description,  which  she  gave 


A NARROW  ESCAPE. 


205 


with  much  humor,  “how  manifold  your  transgressions  have 
been  this  day.  You  have  offended  the  grand  maitre, 
maitres,  and  aspirants,  in  one  coup ; you  have  broken  up 
the  whole  ‘order  of  their  going. ’ ” 

“And  run  away  with  the  belle  of  the  chateau,”  added  I, 
pour  conible  de  hardiesse. 

She  did  not  seem  half  to  relish  my  jest,  however;  and 
gave  a little  shake  of  the  head,  as  though  to  say,  “You’re 
not  out  of  that  scrape  yet.” 

Thus  did  we  chat  over  our  dinner,  which  was  really 
excellent,  the  host’s  eulogy  on  the  Meuse  trout  being 
admirably  sustained  by  their  merits;  nor  did  his  flask  of 
llaut-Brion  lower  the  character  of  his  cellar.  Still  no 
note  of  preparation  seemed  to  indicate  any  arrangements 
for  our  departure;  and  although,  sooth  to  say,  I could 
have  reconciled  myself  wonderfully  to  the  inconvenience 
of  the  Toison  d’Or  for  the  whole  week  if  necessary,  Laura 
was  becoming  momentarily  more  impatient,  as  she  said,  — 
“ Do  see  if  they  are  getting  anything  like  a carriage 
ready,  or  even  horses;  we  can  ride,  if  they’ll  only  get  us 
animals.” 

As  I entered  the  little  kitchen  of  the  inn,  I found  my 
host  stretched  at  ease  in  a wicker  chair,  surrounded  by  a 
little  atmosphere  of  smoke,  through  which  his  great  round 
face  loomed  like  the  moon  in  the  grotesque  engravings  one 
sees  in  old  spelling-books.  So  far  from  giving  himself  any 
unnecessary  trouble  about  our  departure,  he  had  never  ven- 
tured beyond  the  precincts  of  the  stove,  contenting  himself 
with  a wholesome  monologue  on  the  impossibility  of  our 
desires,  and  that  great  Flemish  consolation,  that  however 
we  might  chafe  at  first,  time  would  calm  us  in  the  end. 

After  a fruitless  interrogation  about  the  means  of  pro- 
ceeding, I asked  if  there  were  no  chateau  in  the  vicinity 
where  horses  could  be  borrowed. 

He  replied,  “No,  not  one  for  miles  round.” 

“Is  there  no  mayor  in  the  village,  — where  is  he?” 

“I  am  the  mayor,”  replied  he,  with  a conscious  dignity. 
“Alas!”  thought  I,  as  the  functionary  of  Givet  crossed 
my  mind,  “why  did  I not  remember  that  the  mayor  is 
always  the  most  stupid  of  the  whole  community?” 


266 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“Then  I think,”  said  I,  after  a brief  silence,  “we  had 
better  see  the  cure  at  once.” 

“I  thought  so,”  was  the  sententious  reply. 

Without  troubling  my  head  why  he  “thought  so,”  I 
begged  that  the  cure  might  be  informed  that  a gentleman 
at  the  inn  begged  to  speak  with  him  for  a few  minutes. 

“The  Pere  Jose,  I suppose?  ” said  the  host,  significantly. 

“With  all  my  heart,”  said  I;  “Jose  or  Pierre,  it’s  all 
alike  to  me.” 

“He  is  there  in  waiting  this  half-hour,”  said  the  host, 
pointing  with  his  thumb  to  a small  salon  off  the  kitchen. 

“Indeed!”  said  I;  “how  very  polite  the  attention! 
I ’m  really  most  grateful.” 

With  which,  without  delaying  another  moment,  I pushed 
open  the  door,  and  entered. 

The  Pere  Jose  was  a short,  ruddy,  astute-looking  man 
of  about  fifty,  dressed  in  the  canonical  habit  of  a Flemish 
priest,  which  from  time  and  wear  had  lost  much  of  its 
original  freshness.  He  had  barely  time  to  unfasten  a 
huge  napkin,  which  he  had  tied  around  his  neck  during 
his  devotion  to  a great  mess  of  vegetable  soup,  when  I 
made  my  bow  to  him. 

“The  Pere  Jose,  I believe?”  said  I,  as  I took  my  seat 
opposite  to  him. 

“That  unworthy  priest!”  said  he,  wiping  his  lips,  and 
throwing  up  his  ejms  with  an  expression  not  wholly 
devotional. 

“Pere  Jose,”  resumed  I,  “a  young  lady  and  myself,  who 
have  just  arrived  here  with  weary  horses,  stand  in  need  of 
your  kind  assistance.”  Here  he  pressed  my  hand  gently, 
as  if  to  assure  me  I was  not  mistaken  in  my  man,  and  I 
went  on:  “We  must  reach  Rochepied  to-night;  now,  will 
you  try  and  assist  us  at  this  conjuncture?  We  are  com- 
plete strangers.” 

“Enough,  enough!”  said  he.  “I’m  sorry  you  are  con- 
strained for  time.  This  is  a sweet  little  place  for  a few 
days’  sojourn.  But  if,”  said  he,  “it  can’t  be,  you  shall 
have  every  aid  in  my  power.  I ’ll  send  off  to  Poil  de 
Vache  for  his  mule  and  car.  You  don’t  mind  a little 
shaking?”  said  he,  smiling. 


A NARROW  ESCAPE. 


267 


“ It ’s  no  time  to  be  fastidious,  Pere,  and  the  lady  is  an 
excellent  traveller.” 

“The  mule  is  a good  beast,  and  will  bring  you  in  three 
hours,  or  even  less.”  So  saying,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
few  lines  on  a scrap  of  paper,  with  which  he  despatched 
a boy  from  the  inn,  telling  him  to  make  every  haste. 
“And  now,  Monsieur,  may  I be  permitted  to  pay  my  re- 
spects to  Mademoiselle?” 

“Most  certainly,  Pere  Jose;  she  will  be  but  too  happy 
to  add  her  thanks  to  mine  for  what  you  have  done  for 
us.” 

“Say  rather,  for  what  I am  about  to  do,”  said  he, 
smiling. 

“The  will  is  half  the  deed,  Father.” 

“A  good  adage,  and  an  old,”  replied  he,  while  he  pro- 
ceeded to  arrange  his  drapery,  and  make  himself  as  pre- 
sentable as  the  nature  of  his  costume  would  admit. 

“This  was  a rapid  business  of  yours,”  said  he,  as  he 
smoothed  down  his  few  locks  at  the  back  of  his  head. 

“That  it  was,  Fere,  — a regular  runaway.” 

“I  guessed  as  much,”  said  he.  “I  said  so,  the  moment 
I saw  you  at  the  ferry.” 

The  pere  is  no  bad  judge  of  horse-flesh,  thought  I,  to 
detect  the  condition  of  our  beasts  at  that  distance. 

There ’s  something  for  me,’  said  I to  Madame  Guyon. 
‘Look  yonder!  See  how  their  cattle  are  blowing!  They’ve 
lost  no  time,  and  neither  will  I.’  And  with  that  I put  on 
my  gown  and  came  up  here.” 

“ How  considerate  of  you,  P£re ; you  saw  we  should  need 
your  help.” 

“Of  course  I did,”  said  he,  chuckling.  “Of  course  I 
did.  Old  Gregoire,  here,  is  so  stupid  and  so  indolent  that 
I have  to  keep  a sharp  look-out  myself.  But  he ’s  the 
maire,  and  one  can’t  quarrel  with  him.” 

“Very  true,”  said  I.  “A  functionary  has  a hundred 
opportunities  of  doing  civil  things,  or  the  reverse.” 

“That’s  exactly  the  case,”  said  the  pere.  “Without 
him  we  should  have  no  law  on  our  side.  It  would  be  all 
sous  la  cheminee,  as  they  say.” 

The  expression  was  new  to  me,  and  I imagined  the  good 


268 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


priest  to  mean  that  without  the  magistrature  respect  for 
the  laws  might  as  well  be  “up  the  chimney.” 

“And  now,  if  you  will  allow  me,  we’ll  pay  our  duty  to 
the  lady,”  said  the  Pere  Jose,  when  he  had  completed  his 
toilette  to  his  satisfaction. 

When  the  ceremonial  of  presenting  the  pere  was  over  I 
informed  Laura  of  his  great  kindness  in  our  behalf,  and 
the  trouble  he  had  taken  to  provide  us  with  an  equipage. 

“ A sorry  one,  I fear,  Mademoiselle,”  interposed  he,  with 
a bow.  “But  I believe  there  are  few  circumstances  in  life 
where  people  are  more  willing  to  endure  sacrifices.” 

“ Then  Monsieur  has  explained  to  you  our  position  ? ” 
said  Laura,  half  blushing  at  the  absurdity  of  the  adventure. 

“ Everything,  my  dear  young  lady,  — everything.  Don’t 
let  the  thought  give  you  any  uneasiness,  however.  I listen 
to  stranger  stories  every  day.” 

“Taste  that  Haut-Brion,  Pere,”  said  I,  wishing  to  give 
the  conversation  a turn,  as  I saw  Laura  felt  uncomfortable, 
“and  give  me  your  opinion  of  it.  To  my  judgment  it  seems 
excellent.” 

“And  your  judgment  is  unimpeachable  in  more  respects 
than  that,”  said  the  pere,  with  a significant  look,  which 
fortunately  was  not  seen  by  Mademoiselle. 

Confound  him,  said  I to  myself ; I must  try  another 
tack.  “We  were  remarking,  Pere  Jose,  as  we  came  along, 
that  very  picturesque  river  the  Chateau  de  Bouvigne ; a 
fine  thing  in  its  time,  it  must  have  been.” 

“ You  know  the  story,  I suppose  ? ” said  the  pere. 

“ Mademoiselle  was  relating  it  to  me  on  the  way,  and 
indeed  I am  most  anxious  to  hear  the  denouement .” 

“ It  was  a sad  one,”  said  he,  slowly.  “ I ’ll  show  you 
the  spot  where  Henri  fell,  — the  stone  that  marks  the 
place.” 

“0  Pere  Jose,”  said  Laura,  “I  must  stop  you,  — indeed 
I must,  — or  the  whole  interest  of  my  narrative  will  be 
ruined.  You  forget  that  Monsieur  has  not  heard  the  tale 
out.” 

“ Ah  ? ma  foi,  I beg  pardon,  — a thousand  pardons. 
Mademoiselle,  then,  knows  Bouvigne  ? ” 

“I’ve  been  here  once  before,  but  only  part  of  a morning. 


A NARROW  ESCAPE. 


269 

I ’ve  seen  nothing  but  the  outer  court  of  the  chateau  and 
the  fosse  da  traitre .” 

“So,  so;  you  know  it  all,  I perceive,”  said  he,  smiling 
pleasantly.  “ Are  you  too  much  fatigued  for  a walk  that 
far?  ” 

“Shall  we  have  time?”  said  Laura;  “that’s  the 
question.” 

“Abundance  of  time.  Jocot  can’t  be  here  for  an  hour 
yet,  at  soonest.  And  if  you  allow  me,  I ’ll  give  all  the 
necessary  directions  before  we  leave,  so  that  you’ll  not  be 
delayed  ten  minutes  on  your  return.” 

While  Laura  went  in  search  of  her  hat,  I again  proffered 
my  thanks  to  the  kind  pere  for  all  his  good  nature,  express- 
ing the  strong  desire  I felt  for  some  opportunity  of  requital. 

“Be  happy,”  said  the  good  man,  squeezing  my  hand 
affectionately;  “that’s  the  way  you  can  best  repay  me.” 

“It  would  not  be  difficult  to  follow  the  precept  in  your 
society,  Fere  Jose,”  said  I,  overcome  by  the  cordiality  of 
the  old  man’s  manner. 

“I  have  made  a great  many  so,  indeed,”  said  he.  “The 
five-and-thirty  years  I have  lived  in  Bouvigne  have  not 
been  without  their  fruit.” 

Laura  joined  us  here,  and  we  took  the  way  together 
towards  the  chateau,  the  priest  discoursing  all  the  way  on 
the  memorable  features  of  the  place,  its  remains  of  ancient 
grandeur,  and  the  picturesque  beauty  of  its  site. 

As  we  ascended  the  steep  path  which,  cut  in  the  solid 
rock,  leads  to  the  chateau,  groups  of  pretty  children  came 
flocking  about  us,  presenting  bouquets  for  our  acceptance, 
and  even  scattering  flowers  in  our  path.  This  simple  act 
of  village  courtesy  struck  us  both  much,  and  we  could  not 
help  feeling  touched  by  the  graceful  delicacy  of  the  little 
ones,  who  tripped  away  ere  we  could  reward  them ; neither 
could  I avoid  remarking  to  Laura,  on  the  perfect  good 
understanding  that  seemed  to  subsist  between  Pere  Jose 
and  the  children  of  his  flock,  — the  paternal  fondness  on 
one  side,  and  the  filial  reverence  on  the  other.  As  we  con- 
versed thus,  we  came  in  front  of  a great  arched  doorway, 
in  a curtain  wall  connecting  two  massive  fragments  of 
rock.  In  front  lay  a deep  fosse,  traversed  by  a narrow 


270 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


wall,  scarce  wide  enough  for  one  person  to  venture  on. 
Below,  the  tangled  weeds  and  ivy  concealed  the  dark 
abyss,  which  was  full  eighty  feet  in  depth. 

“Look  up,  now,”  said  Laura;  “you  must  bear  the  fea- 
tures of  this  spot  in  mind  to  understand  the  story.  Don’t 
forget  where  that  beam  projects,  — do  you  mark  it  well?” 

“He’ll  get  a better  notion  of  it  from  the  tower,”  said 
the  pere.  “ Shall  I assist  you  across?  ” 

Without  any  aid,  however,  Laura  trod  the  narrow  path- 
way, and  hasted  along  up  the  steep  and  time-worn  steps  of 
the  old  tower.  As  we  emerged  upon  the  battlements  we 
stood  for  a moment,  overcome  by  the  splendor  of  the  pros- 
pect. Miles  upon  miles  of  rich  landscape  lay  beneath  us, 
glittering  in  the  red,  brown,  and  golden  tints  of  autumn, 
— that  gorgeous  livery  which  the  year  puts  on,  ere  it  dons 
the  sad-colored  mantle  of  winter.  The  great  forest,  too, 
was  touched  here  and  there  with  that  light  brown,  the  first 
advance  of  the  season;  while  the  river  reflected  every  tint 
in  its  calm  tide,  as  though  it  also  would  sympathize  with 
the  changes  around  it. 

While  the  Pere  Jose  continued  to  point  out  each  place 
of  mark  or  note  in  the  vast  plain,  interweaving  in  his 
descriptions  some  chance  bit  of  antiquarian  or  historic 
lore,  we  were  forcibly  struck  by  the  thorough  intimacy  he 
possessed  with  all  the  features  of  the  locality,  and  could 
not  help  complimenting  him  upon  it. 

“Yes,  ma foi,”  said  he,  “I  know  every  rock  and  crevice, 
every  old  tree  and  rivulet  for  miles  round.  In  the  long 
life  I have  passed  here,  each  day  has  brought  me  among 
these  scenes  with  some  traveller  or  other;  and  albeit  they 
who  visit  us  here  have  little  thought  for  the  picturesque, 
few  are  unmoved  by  this  peaceful  and  lovely  valley.  You ’d 
little  suspect,  Mademoiselle,  how  many  have  passed  through 
my  hands  here,  in  these  five-and-thirty  years.  I keep  a 
record  of  their  names,  in  which  I must  beg  you  will  kindly 
inscribe  yours.” 

Laura  blushed  at  the  proposition  which  should  thus 
commemorate  her  misadventure;  while  I mumbled  out 
something  about  our  being  mere  passing  strangers,  un- 
known in  the  land. 


A NARROW  ESCAPE. 


271 


“No  matter  for  that,”  replied  the  inexorable  Father, 
“I  ’ll  have  your  names,  — ay,  autographs  too!  ” 

“The  sun  seems  very  low,”  said  Laura,  as  she  pointed 
to  the  west,  where  already  a blaze  of  red  golden  light  was 
spreading  over  the  horizon : “ I think  we  must  hasten  our 
departure.” 

“Follow  me,  then,”  said  the pere,  “and  I ’ll  conduct  you 
by  an  easier  path  than  we  came  up  by.” 

With  that  he  unlocked  a small  postern  in  the  curtain 
Avail,  and  led  us  across  a neatly-shaven  laAvn  to  a little 
barbican,  where,  again  unlocking  the  door,  we  descended 
a flight  of  stone  steps  into  a small  garden  terraced  in  the 
native  rock.  The  labor  of  forming  it  must  have  been  im- 
mense, as  every  shovelful  of  earth  was  carried  from  the 
plain  beneath;  and  here  Avere  fruit-trees  and  floAvers, 
shrubs  and  plants,  and  in  the  midst  a tiny  jet  d’eau, 
which,  as  Ave  entered,  seemed  magically  to  salute  us  with 
its  refreshing  plash.  A little  bench,  commanding  a vieAV 
of  the  river  from  a different  aspect,  invited  us  to  sit  down 
for  a moment.  Indeed,  each  turn  of  the  way  seduced  us 
by  some  beauty,  and  Ave  could  have  lingered  on  for  hours. 

As  for  me,  forgetful  of  the  past,  careless  of  the  future,  I 
Avas  totally  wrapped  up  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  moment, 
and  Laura  herself  seemed  so  enchanted  by  the  spot  that 
she  sat  silently  gazing  on  the  tranquil  scene,  apparently 
lost  in  delighted  revery.  A Ioav,  faint  sigh  escaped  her  as 
she  looked;  and  I thought  I could  see  a tremulous  motion 
of  her  eyelid,  as  though  a tear  were  struggling  Avithin  it. 
My  heart  beat  poAverfully  against  my  side.  I turned  to 
see  Avhere  Avas  the  pere.  He  had  gone.  I looked  again, 
and  saw  him  standing  on  a point  of  rock  far  beneath  us, 
and  Avaving  his  handkerchief  as  a signal  to  some  one  in  the 
valley.  Never  Avas  there  such  a situation  as  mine;  never 
Avas  mortal  man  so  placed.  I stole  my  hand  carelessly 
along  the  bench  till  it  touched  hers;  but  she  moved  not 
away, — no,  her  mind  seemed  quite  pre-occupied.  I had 
never  seen  her  profile  before,  and  truly  it  Avas  very  beau- 
tiful. All  the  vivacity  of  her  temperament  calmed  down 
by  the  feeling  of  the  moment,  her  features  had  that  char- 
acter of  placid  loveliness  Avhich  seemed  only  wanting  to 


272 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


make  her  perfectly  handsome.  I wished  to  speak,  and 
could  not.  I felt  that  if  I could  have  dared  to  say 
“Laura,”  I could  have  gone  on  bravely  afterwards, — but 
it  would  not  come.  “Amen  stuck  in  my  throat.”  Twice 
I got  half-way,  and  covered  my  retreat  by  a short  cough. 
Only  think  what  a change  in  my  destiny  another  syllable 
might  have  caused!  It  was  exactly  as  my  second  effort 
proved  fruitless  that  a delicious  sound  of  music  swelled 
up  from  the  glen  beneath,  and  floated  through  the  air,  — a 
chorus  of  young  voices  singing  what  seemed  to  be  a hymn. 
Never  was  anything  more  charming.  The  notes,  softened 
as  they  rose  on  high,  seemed  almost  like  a seraph’s  song, 
— now  raising  the  soul  to  high  and  holy  thoughts;  now 
thrilling  within  the  heart  with  a very  ecstasy  of  delight. 
At  length  they  paused,  the  last  cadence  melted  slowly 
away,  and  all  was  still. 

We  did  not  dare  to  move;  when  Laura  touched  my  hand 
gently,  and  whispered,  “Hark!  there  it  is  again!”  And 
at  the  instant  the  voices  broke  forth,  but  into  a more  joy- 
ous measure.  It  was  one  of  those  sweet  peasant-carollings 
which  breathe  of  the  light  heart  and  the  simple  life  of  the 
cottage.  The  words  came  nearer  and  nearer  as  we  listened, 
and  at  length  I could  trace  the  refrain  which  closed  each 
verse,  — 

‘'Puisque  l’lierbe  et  la  fleur  parlent  mieux  que  les  mots, 

Puisque  un  aveu  d’amour  s’exhale  de  la  rose, 

Que  le  ‘ ne  m’oublie  pas  ’ de  souvenir  s’arrose, 

Que  le  laurier  dit  Gloire  ! et  cypres  sanglots.” 

At  last  the  wicket  of  the  garden  slowly  opened,  and  a 
little  procession  of  young  girls  all  dressed  in  white,  with 
white  roses  in  their  hair  and  each  carrying  bouquets  in 
their  hands,  entered,  and  with  steady  step  came  forward. 
We  watched  them  attentively,  believing  that  they  were 
celebrating  some  little  devotional  pilgrimage,  when  to  our 
surprise  they  approached  where  we  sat,  and  with  a low 
courtesy  each  dropped  her  bouquet  at  Laura’s  feet,  whis- 
pering in  a low  silver  voice  as  they  passed,  “May  thy  feet 
always  tread  upon  flowers!  ” Ere  we  could  speak  our  sur- 
prise and  admiration  of  this  touching  scene,  — for  it  was 


A NARROW  ESCAPE. 


273 


such,  in  all  its  simplicity,  — they  were  gone,  and  the  last 
notes  of  their  chant  were  dying  away  in  the  distance. 

“How  beautiful!  how  very  beautiful!”  said  Laura;  “I 
shall  never  forget  this.” 

“Nor  I,”  said  I,  making  a desperate  effort  at  I know  not 
what  avowal,  which  the  appearance  of  the  pere  at  once  put 
to  flight.  He  had  just  seen  the  boy  returning  along  the 
river-side  with  the  mule  and  cart,  and  came  to  apprise  us 
that  we  had  better  descend. 

“It  will  be  veiy  late  indeed  before  we  reach  Dinant,” 
said  Laura;  “we  shall  scarcely  get  there  before  midnight.” 

“Oh,  you  ’ll  be  there  much  earlier.  It  is  now  past  six; 
in  less  than  ten  minutes  you  can  be  en  route.  I shall  not 
cause  you  much  delay.” 

Ah,  thought  I,  the  good  Father  is  still  dreaming  about 
his  album;  we  must  indulge  his  humor,  which,  after  all,  is 
but  a poor  requital  for  all  his  politeness. 

As  we  entered  the  parlor  of  the  Toison  d’Or,  we  found 
the  host  in  all  the  bravery  of  his  Sunday  suit,  with  a light- 
brown  wig,  and  stockings  blue  as  the  heaven  itself,  stand- 
ing waiting  our  arrival.  The  hostess,  too,  stood  at  the 
other  side  of  the  door,  in  the  full  splendor  of  a great 
quilted  jupe,  and  a cap  whose  ears  descended  half-way  to 
her  waist.  On  the  table,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  were 
two  wax-candles,  of  that  portentous  size  which  we  see  in 
chapels.  Between  them  there  lay  a great  open  volume, 
which  at  a glance  I guessed  to  be  the  priest’s  album. 
Not  comprehending  what  the  worthy  host  and  hostess 
meant  by  their  presence,  I gave  a look  of  interrogation 
to  the  pere,  who  quickly  whispered,  — 

“Oh,  it  is  nothing;  they  are  only  the  witnesses.” 

I could  not  help  laughing  outright  at  the  idea  of  this 
formality,  nor  could  Laura  refrain  either  when  I explained 
to  her  what  they  came  for.  However,  time  passed;  the 
jingle  of  the  bells  on  the  mules’  harness  warned  us  that 
our  equipage  waited,  and  I dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink  and 
handed  it  to  Laura. 

“ I wish  he  would  excuse  me  from  performing  this  cere- 
mony,” said  she,  holding  back;  “I  really  am  quite  enough 
ashamed  already.” 


IS 


274 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“What  says  Mademoiselle?”  inquired  the  pere,  as  she 
spoke  in  English. 

I translated  her  remark,  when  he  broke  in,  “Oh,  you 
must  comply;  it’s  only  a formality,  but  still  every  one 
does  it.” 

“Come,  come,”  said  I,  in  English,  “indulge  the  old  man; 
he  is  evidently  bent  on  this  whim,  and  let  us  not  leave  him 
disappointed.” 

“Be  it  so,  then,”  said  she;  “on  your  head,  Mr.  O’Leary, 
be  the  whole  of  this  day’s  indiscretion;”  and  so  saying, 
she  took  the  pen  and  wrote  her  name,  “Laura  Alicia 
Muddleton.” 

“Now,  then,  for  my  turn,”  said  I,  advancing;  but  the 
pere  took  the  pen  from  her  fingers,  and  proceeded  carefully 
to  dry  the  writing  with  a scrap  of  blotting-paper. 

“On  this  side,  Monsieur,”  said  he,  turning  over  the 
page;  “we  do  the  whole  affair  in  orderly  fashion,  you  see. 
Put  your  name  there,  with  the  'date  and  the  day  of  the 
week.” 

“Will  that  do?”  said  I,  as  I pushed  over  the  book  to- 
wards him,  where  certainly  the  least  imposing  specimen  of 
calligraphy  the  volume  contained  now  stood  confessed. 

“What  a droll  name!”  said  the  priest,  as  he  peered  at 
it  through  his  spectacles.  “How  do  you  pronounce  it?  ” 

While  I endeavored  to  indoctrinate  the  Father  into  the 
mystery  of  my  Irish  appellation,  the  mayor  and  the  mayor- 
ess had  both  appended  their  signatures  on  either  page. 

“Well,  I suppose  now  we  may  depart  at  last,”  said 
Laura;  “it’s  getting  very  late.” 

“Yes,”  said  I,  aloud;  “we  must  take  the  road  now; 
there  is  nothing  more,  I fancy,  Pere  Jose?” 

“Yes,  but  there  is  though,”  said  he,  laughing. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  galloping  of  horses  and  the 
crash  of  wheels  were  heard  without,  and  a carriage  drew 
iip  in  the  street.  Down  went  the  steps  with  a crash ; 
several  people  rushed  along  the  little  gallery,  till  the 
very  house  shook  with  their  tread.  The  door  of  the  salon 
was  now  banged  wide,  and  in  rushed  Colonel  Muddleton, 
followed  by  the  count,  the  abb6,  and  an  elderly  lady. 

“Where  is  he?”  — “Where  is  she?”  — “Where  is  he?” 


A NARROW  ESCAPE. 


— “Where  is  she?”  — “Where  are  they?”  screamed  they, 
in  confusion,  one  after  the  other. 

“Laura!  Laura!”  cried  the  old  colonel,  clasping  his 
daughter  in  his  arms;  “I  didn’t  expect  this  from  you!  ” 

“ Monsieur  O’Leary,  vous  etes  un  — ” 

Before  the  count  could  finish,  the  abb6  interposed  between 
us,  and  said,  “No,  no!  Everything  may  be  arranged.  Tell 
me,  in  one  word,  is  it  over?  ” 

“Is  what  over?”  said  I,  in  a state  two  degrees  worse 
than  insanity,  — “ is  what  over?  ” 

“Are  you  married?”  whispered  he. 

“No,  bless  your  heart!  never  thought  of  it.” 

“ Oh,  the  wretch ! ” screamed  the  old  lady,  and  went  off 
into  strong  Lickings  on  the  sofa. 

“It’s  a bad  affair,”  said  the  abbe,  in  a low  voice;  “take 
my  advice,  — propose  to  marry  her  at  once.” 

“Yes,  pcirbleii ! ” said  the  little  count,  twisting  his 
mustaches  in  a fierce  manner;  “there  is  but  one  road  to 
take  here.” 

Now,  though  unquestionably  but  half  an  hour  before, 
when  seated  beside  the  lovely  Laura  in  the  garden  of  the 
chateau,  such  a thought  would  have  tilled  me  with  delight, 
the  same  proposition,  accompanied  by  a threat,  stirred  up 
all  my  indignation  and  resistance. 

“Not  on  compulsion,”  said  Sir  John;  and  truly  there 
was  reason  in  the  speech. 

But,  indeed,  before  I could  reply,  the  attention  of  all  was 
drawn  towards  Laura  herself,  who  from  laughing  violently 
at  first  had  now  become  hysterical,  and  continued  to  laugh 
and  cry  at  intervals;  and  as  the  old  lady  continued  her 
manipulations  with  a candlestick  on  an  oak  table  near, 
while  the  colonel  shouted  for  various  unattainable  remedies 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  the  scene  was  anything  but  decor- 
ous, — the  abb6,  who  alone  seemed  to  preserve  his  sanity, 
having  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  prevent  the  little  count 
from  strangling  me  with  his  own  hands;  such,  at  least,  his 
violent  gestures  seeming  to  indicate.  As  for  the  priest  and 
the  mayor  and  the  she-mayor,  they  had  all  fled  long  before. 
There  appeared  now  but  one  course  for  me,  which  was  to 
fly  also.  There  was  no  knowing  what  intemperance  the 


276 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


count  might  not  commit  under  his  present  excitement;  it 
was  clear  they  were  all  laboring  under  a delusion,  which 
nothing  at  the  present  moment  could  elucidate.  A nod 
from  the  abbe  and  a motion  towards  the  open  door  decided 
my  wavering  resolution.  I rushed  out,  over  the  gallery 
and  down  the  road,  not  knowing  whither  nor  caring. 

I might  as  well  try  to  chronicle  the  sensations  of  my 
raving  intellect  in  my  first  fever  in  boyhood,  as  convey  any 
notion  of  what  passed  through  my  brain  for  the  next  two 
hours.  I sat  on  a rock  beside  the  river,  vainly  endeavor- 
ing to  collect  my  scattered  thoughts,  which  only  presented 
to  me  a vast  chaos  of  a wood  and  a crusader,  a priest  and  a 
lady,  veal  cutlets  and  music,  a big  book,  an  old  lady  in  fits, 
and  a man  in  sky-blue  stockings.  The  rolling  near  me  of 
a carriage  with  four  horses  aroused  me  for  a second,  but  I 
could  not  well  say  why,  and  all  was  again  still,  and  I sat 
there  alone. 

“He  must  be  somewhere  near  this,”  said  a voice,  as  I 
heard  the  tread  of  footsteps  approaching;  “this  is  his  hat. 
Ah,  here  he  is.”  At  the  same  moment  the  abbe  stood 
beside  me.  “Come  along,  now;  don’t  stay  here  in  the 
cold,”  said  he,  taking  me  by  the  arm.  “They’ve  all  gone 
home  two  hours  ago.  I have  remained  to  ride  back  the 
nag  in  the  morning.” 

I followed  without  a word. 

“ Ma  foi ! ” said  he,  “ it  is  the  first  occasion  in  my  life 
where  I could  not  see  my  way  through  a difficulty.  What, 
in  Heaven’s  name,  were  you  about?  What  was  your 
plan?” 

“Give  me  half  an  hour  in  peace,”  said  I;  “and  if  I ’m 
not  deranged  before  it ’s  over,  I ’ll  tell  you.” 

The  abbe  complied,  and  I fulfilled  my  promise,  — though 
in  good  sooth  the  shouts  of  laughter  with  which  he  received 
my  story  caused  many  an  interruption.  AN  hen  I had  fin- 
ished, he  began,  and  leisurely  proceeded  to  inform  me  that 
Bouvigne’s  great  celebrity  was  as  a place  for  runaway 
couples  to  get  married;  that  the  inn  of  the  Golden  Fleece 
was  known  over  the  whole  kindgom,  and  the  Pere  Josh’s 
reputation  wide  as  the  Archbishop  of  Ghent’s;  and  as  to 
the  phrase  sous  la  cheminee,  it  is  only  applied  to  a clan- 


A NATIRO 


277 


vr  escape. 

destinem  arriage,  which  is  called  a “mariage  sous  la 
cheminde.” 

“Now  I,”  continued  he,  “can  readily  believe  every  word 
you ’ve  told  me;  yet  there  ’s  not  another  person  in  Roche- 
pied  would  credit  a syllable  of  it.  Never  hope  for  an 
explanation.  In  fact,  before  you  would  be  listened  to, 
there  are  at  least  two  duels  to  tight,  — the  count  first,  and 
then  D’Espagne.  I know  Laura  well;  she’ll  let  the  affair 
have  all  its  eclat  before  she  will  say  a word  about  it;  and, 
in  fact,  your  executors  may  be  able  to  clear  your  charac- 
ter, — you  ’ll  never  do  so  in  your  lifetime.  Don’t  go  back 
there,”  said  the  abbe,  “at  least  for  the  present.” 

“I’ll  never  set  eyes  on  one  of  them,”  cried  I,  in  des- 
peration. “ I ’m  nigh  deranged  as  it  is ; the  memory  of  this 
confounded  affair  — ” 

“Will  make  you  laugh  yet,”  said  the  abbe.  “And  now 
good-uight,  or  rather  good-by:  I start  early  to-morrow 
morning,  and  we  may  not  meet  again.” 

He  promised  to  forward  my  effects  to  Dinant,  and  we 
parted. 

“Monsieur  will  have  a single  bed?”  said  the  housemaid, 
in  answer  to  my  summons. 

“Yes,”  said  I,  with  a muttering  I fear  very  like  an  oath. 

Morning  broke  in  through  the  half-closed  curtains,  with 
the  song  of  birds  and  the  ripple  of  the  gentle  river.  A 
balmy  gentle  air  stirred  the  leaves,  and  the  sweet  valley 
lay  in  all  its  peaceful  beauty  before  me. 

“Well,  well,”  said  I,  rubbing  my  eyes,  “it  was  a queer 
adventure;  and  there’s  no  saying  what  might  have  hap- 
pened, had  they  been  only  ten  minutes  later.  1 ’d  give  a 
napoleon  to  know  what  Laura  thinks  of  it  now.  Rut  I 
must  not  delay  here, — the  very  villagers  will  laugh  at 
me.” 

1 ate  my  breakfast  rapidly,  and  called  for  my  bill.  The 
sum  was  a mere  trifle,  and  I was  just  adding  something  to 
it  when  a knock  came  to  the  door. 

“Come  in,”  said  I,  and  the  pere  entered. 

“How  sadly  unfortunate,”  began  he,  when  I interrupted 
him  at  once,  assuring  him  of  his  mistake, — telling  him 


278 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


that  we  were  no  runaway  couple  at  all,  had  not  the  most 
remote  idea  of  being  married,  and  in  fact  owed  our  whole 
disagreeable  adventure  to  his  ridiculous  misconception. 

“It’s  very  well  to  say  that  now,”  growled  out  the  pere, 
in  a very  different  accent  from  his  former  one.  “You  may 
pretend  what  you  like,  but  — ” and  he  spoke  in  a deter- 
mined tone  — “you  ’ll  pay  my  bill.” 

“ Your  bill!”  said  I,  waxing  wroth.  “What  have  I 
had  from  you.  How  am  I your  debtor?  I should  like 
to  hear.” 

“And  you  shall,”  said  he,  drawing  forth  a long  docu- 
ment from  a pocket  in  his  cassock.  “Here  it  is.” 

He  handed  me  the  paper,  of  which  the  following  is  a 
transcript : — 

Noces  de  Mi  Lord  O’Leary  et  Mademoiselle  Mi  Lady  de  Muddleton. 

FRANCS. 


Two  conversations, — preliminary,  admonitory,  and  con- 
solatory   100 

Advice  to  the  young  couple,  with  moral  maxims  inter- 
spersed   3 0 

Soiree,  and  society  at  wine 5 0 

Guide  to  the  chateau,  with  details,  artistic  and  antiqua- 
rian   120 

Eight  children  with  flowers,  at  halt  a franc  each  ...  40 

Fees  at  the  chateau 2 0 

Chorus  of  virgins,  at  one  franc  per  virgin 10  0 

Roses  for  virgins 2 10 

M.  le  Maire  et  Madame  “ en  grande  tenue  ” ....  10 


Book  of  Registry,  setting  forth  the  date  of  the  Marriage  — 

“The  devil  take  it!”  said  I;  “it  was  no  marriage 
at  all.” 

“Yes,  but  it  was,  though,”  said  he.  “It’s  your  own 
fault  if  you  can’t  take  care  of  your  wife.” 

The  noise  of  his  reply  brought  the  host  and  hostess  to 
the  scene  of  action;  and  though  I resisted  manfully  for  a 
time,  there  was  no  use  in  prolonging  a hopeless  contest, 
and,  with  a melancholy  sigh,  I disbursed  my  wedding 
expenses,  and  with  a hearty  malediction  on  Bouvigne,  — 
its  chateau,  its  inn,  its  pere,  its  maire,  and  its  virgins, 
— I took  the  road  towards  Namur,  and  never  lifted  my 
head  till  I had  left  the  place  miles  behind  me. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


A MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURE. 

It  was  growing  late  on  a fine  evening  in  autumn,  as  T, 
a solitary  pedestrian,  drew  near  the  little  town  of  Spa. 
From  the  time  of  my  leaving  Chaude  Fontaine,  I lingered 
along  the  road,  enjoying  to  the  utmost  the  beautiful  valley 
of  the  Vesdre,  and  sometimes  half  hesitating  whether  I 
would  not  loiter  away  some  days  in  one  of  the  little  vil- 
lages I passed,  and  see  if  the  trout,  whose  circling  eddies 
marked  the  stream,  might  not  rise  as  favorably  to  my  fly 
as  to  the  vagrant  insect  that  now  flitted  across  the  water. 
In  good  sooth  I wished  for  rest,  and  I wished  for  solitude; 
too  much  of  my  life  latterty  had  been  passed  in  salons  and 
soirees  ; the  peaceful  habit  of  my  soul,  the  fruit  of  my  own 
lonely  hours,  had  suffered  grievous  inroads  by  my  partner- 
ship with  the  world,  and  I deemed  it  essential  to  be  once 
more  apart  from  the  jarring  influences  and  distracting  cas- 
ualties which  every  step  in  life  is  beset  by,  were  it  only  to 
recover  again  my  habitual  tranquillity,  — to  refit  the  craft 
ere  she  took  the  sea  once  more. 

I wanted  but  little  to  decide  my  mind;  the  sight  of  an 
inn,  some  picturesque  spot,  a pretty  face, — anything,  in 
short,  would  have  sufficed.  But  somehow  I suppose  I 
must  have  been  more  fastidious  than  I knew  of,  for  I 
continued  to  walk  onward;  and  at  last,  leaving  the  little 
hamlet  of  Pepinsterre  behind  me,  I set  out  with  brisker 
pace  towards  Spa.  The  air  was  calm  and  balmy;  no  leaf 
stirred;  the  river  beside  the  road  did  not  even  murmur, 
but  crept  silently  along  its  gravelly  bed,  fearful  to  break 
the  stillness.  Gradually  the  shadows  fell  stronger  and 
broader,  and  at  length  mingled  into  one  broad  expanse  of 
gloom;  in  a few  minutes  more  it  was  night. 

There  is  something  very  striking,  I had  almost  said 
saddening,  in  the  sudden  transition  from  day  to  darkness 


280 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


in  those  countries  where  no  twilight  exists.  The  gradual 
change  by  which  road  and  mountain,  rock  and  cliff,  mellow 
into  the  hues  of  sunset,  and  grow  gray  in  the  gloaming, 
deepening  the  shadows,  and  by  degrees  losing  all  outline 
in  the  dimness  around,  prepares  us  for  the  gloom  of  night. 
We  feel  it  like  the  tranquil  current  of  years  marking  some 
happy  life,  where  childhood  and  youth  and  manhood  and  age 
succeed  in  measured  time.  Not  so  the  sudden  and  immedi- 
ate change,  which  seems  rather  like  the  stroke  of  some  fell 
misfortune,  converting  the  cheerful  hours  into  dark,  brood- 
ing melancholy.  Years  may  — they  do  — fall  lightly  on 
some;  they  creep  with  noiseless  step,  and  youth  and  age 
glide  softly  into  each  other  without  any  shock  to  awaken  the 
thought  that  says,  Adieu  to  this!  Farewell  to  that  forever! 

Thus  was  I musing,  when  suddenly  I found  myself  at 
the  spot  where  the  road  branched  off  in  two  directions. 
Neither  house  nor  a living  thing  was  near,  from  whom  I 
could  ask  the  way.  I endeavored  by  the  imperfect  light 
of  the  stars,  for  there  was  no  moon,  to  ascertain  which 
road  seemed  most  frequented  and  travelled,  judging  that 
Spa  was  the  most  likely  resort  of  all  journeying  in  these 
parts;  but  unhappily  I could  detect  no  difference  to  guide 
me.  There  were  wheel-tracks  in  both,  and  ruts  and  stones 
tolerably  equitably  adjusted;  each  had  a pathway,  too, — 
the  right-hand  road  enjoying  a slight  superiority  over  the 
other  in  this  respect,  as  its  path  was  more  even. 

I was  completely  puzzled.  Had  I been  mounted,  I had 
left  the  matter  to  my  horse;  but  unhappily  my  decision 
had  not  a particle  of  reason  to  guide  it.  I looked  from 
the  road  to  the  trees,  and  from  the  trees  to  the  stars,  but 
they  looked  down  as  tranquilly  as  though  either  way 
would  do, — all  save  one,  a sly  little  brilliant  spangle  in 
the  south,  that  seemed  to  wink  at  my  difficulty.  “No 
matter, ” said  I,  “one  thing  is  certain, — neither  a supper 
nor  a bed  will  come  to  look  for  me  here;  and  so  now  for 
the  best  pathway,  as  I begin  to  feel  foot-sore.” 

My  momentary  embarrassment  about  the  road  completely 
routed  all  my  musings,  and  I now  turned  my  thoughts  to 
the  comforts  of  the  inn,  and  to  the  pleasant  little  supper 
I promised  myself  on  reaching  it.  1 debated  about  what 


A MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURE. 


281 


was  in  season  and  what  was  not.  I spelled  October  twice 
to  ascertain  if  oysters  were  in,  and  there  came  a doubt 
across  me  whether  the  Flemish  name  for  the  month  might 
have  an  r in  it,  and  then  I laughed  at  my  own  bull;  after- 
wards I disputed  with  myself  as  to  the  relative  merits  of 
Chablis  and  Hochheimer,  and  resolved  to  be  guided  by  the 
gallon.  I combated  long  a weakness  I felt  growing  over 
me  for  a pint  of  mulled  claret,  as  the  air  was  now  becom- 
ing fresh;  but  I gave  in  at  last,  and  began  to  hammer  my 
brain  for  the  French  words  for  cloves  and  nutmeg. 

In  these  innocent  ruminations  did  an  hour  pass  by,  and 
yet  no  sign  of  human  habitation,  no  sound  of  life,  could  I 
perceive  at  either  side  of  me.  The  night,  ’t  is  true,  was 
brighter  as  it  became  later,  and  there  were  stars  in  thou- 
sands in  the  sky;  but  I would  gladly  have  exchanged 
Venus  for  the  chambermaid  of  the  humblest  auberge,  and 
given  the  Great  Bear  himself  for  a single  slice  of  bacon. 
At  length,  after  about  two  hours’  walking,  I remarked 
that  the  road  was  becoming  much  more  steep;  indeed,  it 
had  presented  a continual  ascent  for  some  miles,  but  now 
the  acclivity  was  very  considerable,  particularly  at  the 
close  of  a long  day’s  march.  I remembered  well  that  Spa 
lay  in  a valley,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I could  not  think 
whether  a mountain  was  to  be  crossed  to  arrive  there. 
“That  comes  of  travelling  by  post,”  said  I to  myself;  “had 
I walked  the  road,  I had  never  forgotten  so  remarkable  a 
feature.”  While  I said  this,  I could  not  help  confessing 
that  1 had  as  lieve  my  present  excursion  had  been  also  in 
a conveyance. 

“ For  warts  ! fort,  und  Jrnmer  fort!” 

hummed  I,  remembering  Korner’s  song;  and  taking  it  for 
my  motto,  on  I went  at  a good  pace.  It  needed  all  my 
powers  as  a pedestrian,  however,  to  face  the  mountain,  for 
such  T could  see  it  was  that  I was  now  ascending;  the 
pathway,  too,  less  trodden  than  below,  was  encumbered 
with  loose  stones,  and  the  trees  which  lined  the  way  on 
either  side  gradually  became  thinner  and  rarer,  and  at 
last  ceased  altogether,  exposing  me  to  the  cold  blast  which 
swept  from  time  to  time  across  the  barren  heath  with  a 


282 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


cliill  that  said  October  was  own  brother  to  November. 
Three  hours  and  a half  did  I toil  along,  when  at  last  the 
conviction  came  over  me  that  I must  have  taken  the  wrong 
road.  This  could  not  possibly  be  the  way  to  Spa;  indeed, 

I had  great  doubts  that  it  led  anywhere.  I mounted  upon 
a little  rock,  and  took  a survey  of  the  bleak  mountain  side; 
but  nothing  could  I see  that  indicated  that  the  hand  of 
man  had  ever  labored  in  that  wild  region.  Fern  and 
heath,  clumps  of  gorse  and  misshapen  rocks,  diversified 
the  barren  surface  on  every  side,  and  I now  seemed  to 
have  gained  the  summit,  a vast  table-land  spreading  away 
for  miles.  I sat  down  to  consider  what  was  best  to  be 
done.  The  thought  of  retracing  so  many  leagues  of  way 
was  very  depressing;  and  yet  what  were  my  chances  if  I 
went  forward? 

Ah,  thought  I,  why  did  not  some  benevolent  individual 
think  of  erecting  lighthouses  inland?  What  a glorious  in- 
vention would  it  have  been!  Just  think  of  the  great  moun- 
tain districts  which  lie  in  the  very  midst  of  civilization, 
pathless,  trackless,  and  unknown,  where  a benighted  trav- 
eller may  perish  within  the  very  sound  of  succor,  if  he  but 
knew  where  to  seek  it.  How  cheering  to  the  way-worn 
traveller  as  he  plods  along  his  weary  road,  to  lift  from 
time  to  time  his  eyes  to  the  guide-star  in  the  distance ! 
Had  the  monks  been  in  the  habit  of  going  out  in  the 
dark,  there’s  little  doubt  they  ’d  have  persuaded  some 
good  Catholics  to  endow  some  institutions  like  this.  How 
well  they  knew  how  to  have  their  chapels  and  convents 
erected!  I’m  not  sure  but  I’d  vow  a little  lighthouse 
myself  to  the  Virgin,  if  I could  only  catch  a glimpse  of  a 
gleam  of  light  this  moment. 

Just  then  I thought  I saw  something  twinkle,  far  away 
across  the  heath.  I climbed  up  on  the  rock,  and  looked 
steadily  in  the  direction.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it,  — 
there  was  a light;  no  Jack-o’-Lantern  either,  but  a good 
respectable  light,  of  domestic  habits,  shining  steadily  and 
brightly.  It  seemed  far  off;  but  there  is  nothing  so  decep- 
tive as  the  view  over  a flat  surface.  In  any  case,  I resolved 
to  make  for  it;  and  so,  seizing  my  staff,  I once  more  set 
forward.  Unhappily,  however,  I soon  perceived  that  the 


A MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURE. 


283 


road  led  off  in  a direction  exactly  the  reverse  of  the  object 
I sought,  and  I was  now  obliged  to  make  my  choice  of 
quitting  the  path  or  abandoning  the  light;  my  resolve  was 
quickly  made,  and  I started  off  across  the  plain,  with  my 
eyes  steadily  fixed  upon  my  beacon. 

The  mountain  was  marshy  and  wet,  — that  wearisome 
surface  of  spongy  hillock,  and  low,  creeping  brushwood, 
the  most  fatal  thing  to  a tired  walker,  — and  I made  but 
slow  progress;  besides,  frequently,  from  inequalities  of  the 
soil,  I would  lose  sight  of  the  light  for  half  an  hour 
together,  and  then,  on  its  reappearing  suddenly,  discover 
how  far  I had  wandered  out  of  the  direct  line.  These 
little  aberrations  did  not  certainly  improve  my  temper, 
and  I plodded  along,  weary  of  limb,  and  out  of  spirits. 

At  length  I came  to  the  verge  of  a declivity.  Beneath 
me  lay  a valley,  winding  and  rugged,  with  a little  torrent 
brawling  through  rocks  and  stones,  — a wild  and  gloomy 
scene  by  the  imperfect  light  of  the  stars.  On  the  opposite 
mountain  stood  the  coveted  light,  which  now  I could  dis- 
cover proceeded  from  a building  of  some  size,  at  least  so 
far  as  I could  pronounce  from  the  murky  shadow  against 
the  background  of  sky. 

I summoned  up  one  great  effort,  and  pushed  down  the 
slope,  — now  sliding  on  hands  and  feet,  now  trusting  to  a 
run  of  some  yards  where  the  ground  was  more  feasible. 
After  a fatiguing  course  of  two  hours,  I reached  the  crest 
of  the  opposite  hill,  and  stood  within  a few  hundred  yards 
of  the  house,  — the  object  of  my  wearisome  journey.  It 
was  indeed  in  keeping  with  the  deserted  wildness  of  the 
place.  A ruined  tower,  one  of  those  square  keeps  which 
formerly  were  intended  as  frontier  defences,  standing  on  a 
rocky  base,  beside  the  edge  of  a steep  cliff,  had  been  made 
a dwelling  of  by  some  solitary  herdsman, — for  so  the 
sheep  collected  within  a little  inclosure  bespoke  him.  The 
rude  efforts  to  make  the  place  habitable  were  conspicuous 
in  the  door  formed  of  wooden  planks  nailed  coarsely 
together,  and  the  window,  whose  panes  were  made  of  a 
thin  substance  like  parchment,  through  which,  however, 
the  blaze  of  a fire  shone  brightly  without. 

Creeping  carefully  forward  to  take  a reconnoissance  of 


284 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


the  interior  before  I asked  for  admission,  I approached 
a small  aperture,  where  a single  pane  of  glass  permitted  a 
view.  A great  heap  of  blazing  furze,  that  filled  the  old 
chimney  of  the  tower,  lit  up  the  whole  space,  and  enabled 
me  to  see  a man  who  sat  on  a log  of  wood  beside  the 
hearth,  with  his  head  bent  upon  his  knees.  His  dress 
was  a coarse  blouse  of  striped  woollen  descending  to  his 
knees,  where  a pair  of  gaiters  of  sheepskin  were  fastened 
by  thongs  of  untanned  leather;  his  head  was  bare,  and 
covered  only  by  a long  mass  of  black  hair,  that  fell  in 
tangled  locks  down  his  back,  and  even  over  his  face  as  he 
bent  forward.  A shepherd’s  staff  and  a broad  hat  of  felt 
lay  on  the  ground  beside  him;  there  was  neither  chair  nor 
table,  nor,  save  some  fern  in  one  corner,  anything  that 
might  serve  as  a bed;  a large  earthenware  jug  and  a metal 
pot  stood  near  the  fire,  and  a knife,  such  as  butchers  kill 
with,  lay  beside  them.  Over  the  chimney,  however,  was 
suspended,  by  two  thongs  of  leather,  a sword,  long  and 
straight,  like  the  weapon  of  the  heavy  cavalry  of  France; 
and,  higher  again,  I could  see  a great  piece  of  printed 
paper  was  fastened  to  the  wall.  As  I continued  to  scan, 
one  by  one,  these  signs  of  utter  poverty,  the  man  stretched 
out  his  limbs  and  rubbed  his  eyes  for  a minute  or  two,  and 
then  with  a start  sprang  to  his  feet,  displaying,  as  he  did 
so,  the  proportions  of  a most  powerful  and  athletic  frame. 
He  was,  as  well  as  I could  guess,  about  forty-five  years  of 
age;  but  hardship  and  suffering  had  worn  deep  lines  about 
his  face,  which  was  sallow  and  emaciated.  A black  mus- 
tache, that  hung  down  over  his  lip  and  descended  to  his 
chin,  concealed  the  lower  part  of  his  face;  the  upper  was 
bold  and  manly,  the  forehead  high  and  well  developed ; but 
his  eyes  — and  I could  mark  them  well  as  the  light  fell  on 
him  — were  of  an  unnatural  brilliancy;  their  sparkle  had 
the  fearful  gleam  of  a mind  diseased,  and  in  their  quick, 
restless  glances  through  the  room  I saw  that  lie  was  labor- 
ing under  some  insane  delusion.  He  paced  the  room  with 
a steady  step,  backwards  and  forwards,  for  a few  minutes, 
and  once,  as  he  lifted  his  eyes  above  the  chimney,  he 
stopped  abruptly  and  carried  his  hand  to  his  forehead  in  a 
military  salute,  while  he  muttered  something  to  himself. 


A MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURE. 


285 


The  moment  after  he  threw  open  the  door,  and  stepping 
outside,  gave  a long  shrill  whistle;  he  paused  for  a few 
seconds,  and  repeated  it,  when  I could  hear  the  distant 
barking  of  a dog  replying  to  his  call.  Just  then  he  turned 
abruptly,  and  with  a spring  seized  me  by  the  arm. 

“Who  are  you?  What  do  you  want  here? ” said  he,  in 
a voice  tremulous  with  passion. 

A few  words  — it  was  no  time  for  long  explanations  — 
told  him  how  I had  lost  my  way  in  the  mountain,  and  was 
in  search  of  shelter  for  the  night. 

“It  was  a lucky  thing  for  you  that  one  of  my  lambs 
was  astray,”  said  he,  with  a fierce  smile.  “If  Tete-noir 
had  been  at  home,  he  ’d  have  made  short  work  of  you. 
Come  in.” 

With  that  he  pushed  me  before  him  into  the  tower,  and 
pointed  to  the  block  of  wood  where  he  had  been  sitting 
previously,  while  he  threw  a fresh  supply  of  furze  upon 
the  hearth,  and  stirred  up  the  blaze  with  his  foot. 

“The  wind  is  moving  round  to  the  south’ard,”  said  he; 
“we  ’ll  have  a heavy  fall  of  rain  soon.” 

“The  stars  look  very  bright,  however.” 

“Never  trust  them.  Before  day  breaks,  you’ll  see  the 
mountain  will  be  covered  with  mist.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  crossed  his  arms  on  his  breast,  and 
recommenced  his  walk  up  and  down  the  chamber.  The 
few  words  he  spoke  surprised  me  much  by  the  tones  of  his 
voice,  so  unlike  the  accents  I should  have  expected  from 
one  of  his  miserable  and  squalid  appearance;  they  were 
mild,  and  bore  the  traces  of  one  who  had  seen  very  differ- 
ent fortunes  from  his  present  ones. 

I wished  to  speak,  and  induce  him  to  converse  with  me; 
but  the  efforts  I made  seeming  only  to  excite  his  displeas- 
ure, I abandoned  the  endeavor  with  a good  grace;  and 
having  disposed  my  knapsack  as  a pillow,  stretched  my- 
self full  length  before  the  hearth,  and  fell  sound  asleep. 

When  I awoke,  the  shepherd  was  not  to  be  seen.  The 
fire,  which  blazed  brightly,  showed  however  that  he  had 
not  long  been  absent;  a huge  log  of  beech  had  recently 
been  thrown  upon  it.  The  day  was  breaking,  and  I went 
to  the  door  to  look  out.  Nothing,  however,  could  I see; 


286 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


vast  clouds  of  mist  were  sweeping  along  before  the  wind, 
that  sighed  mournfully  over  the  bleak  mountains  and  con- 
cealed everything  a few  yards  off,  while  a thin  rain  came 
slanting  down,  the  prelude  to  the  storm  the  shepherd  had 
prophesied. 

Never  was  there  anything  more  dreary  within  or  with- 
out; the  miserable  poverty  of  the  ruined  tower  was  scarcely 
a shelter  from  the  coming  hurricane.  1 returned  to  my 
place  beside  the  fire,  sad  and  low  in  heart.  While  I was 
conjecturing  within  myself  what  distance  I might  be  from 
Spa,  and  how  I could  contrive  to  reach  it,  I chanced  to  fix 
my  eyes  on  the  sabre  above  the  chimney,  which  I took 
down  to  examine.  It  was  a plain  straight  weapon,  of  the 
kind  carried  by  the  soldiery;  its  only  sign  of  inscription 
was  the  letter  “ X ” on  the  blade.  As  I replaced  it,  I 
caught  sight  of  the  printed  paper,  which,  begrimed  with 
smoke  and  partly  obliterated  by  time,  was  nearly  illegible. 
After  much  pains,  however,  I succeeded  in  deciphering  the 
following;  it  was  headed  in  large  letters,  — 

“ Ordre  du  Jour,  de  l’Armee  Frangaise. 

Le  9 Thermidor.” 

The  lines  which  immediately  followed  were  covered  by 
another  piece  of  paper  pasted  over  them,  where  I could 
just  here  and  there  detect  a stray  word,  which  seemed  to 
indicate  that  the  whole  bore  reference  to  some  victory  of 
the  republican  army.  The  last  four  lines,  much  clearer 
than  the  rest,  ran  thus : — 

“ Le  citoyen  Aubuisson,  chef  de  bataillon  de  Grenadiers,  de  cette 
demi-brigade,  est,  entre  le  premier  dans  la  redoute.  II  a eu  son 
habit  crible  de  balles.” 

I read  and  re-read  the  lines  a dozen  times  over;  indeed, 
to  this  hour  are  they  fast  fixed  in  my  memory.  Some 
strange  mystery  seemed  to  connect  them  with  the  poor 
shepherd;  otherwise,  why  were  they  here?  I thought 
over  his  figure,  strong  and  well-knit,  as  I saw  him  stand 
upright  in  the  room,  and  of  his  military  salute;  and  the 
conviction  came  fully  over  me  that  the  miserable  creature, 


A MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURE. 


287 


covered  with  rags  and  struggling  with  want,  was  no  other 
than  the  citizen  Aubuisson.  Yet,  by  what  fearful  vicissi- 
tude had  he  fallen  to  this?  The  wild  expression  of  his 
features  at  times  did  indeed  look  like  insanity;  still,  what 
he  said  to  me  was  both  calm  and  coherent.  The  mystery 
excited  all  my  curiosity,  and  I longed  for  his  return,  in 
the  hope  of  detecting  some  clew  to  it. 

The  door  opened  suddenly.  A large  dog,  more  mastiff 
than  sheep-dog,  dashed  in ; seeing  me,  he  retreated  a step, 
and  fixing  his  eyes  steadily  upon  me,  gave  a fearful  howl. 
1 could  not  stir  from  fear.  I saw  that  he  was  preparing 
for  a spring,  when  the  voice  of  the  shepherd  called  out, 
“Couche-toi,  Tete-noir,  couche!”  The  savage  beast  at 
once  slunk  quietly  to  a corner,  and  lay  down,  — still  never 
taking  his  eyes  from  me,  and  seeming  to  feel  as  if  his  ser- 
vices would  soon  be  in  request  in  my  behalf;  while  his 
master  shook  the  rain  from  his  hat  and  blouse,  and  came 
forward  to  dry  himself  at  the  fire.  Fixing  his  eyes  stead- 
fastly on  the  red  embers  as  he  stirred  them  with  his  foot, 
he  muttered  some  few  and  broken  words,  among  which, 
although  I listened  attentively,  I could  but  hear,  “Pas 
un  mot;  silence,  silence,  a la  mort!  ” 

“You  were  not  wrong  in  your  prophecy,  Shepherd;  the 
storm  is  setting  in  already,”  said  I,  wishing  to  attract  his 
attention. 

“Hush!”  said  he,  in  a low  whisper,  while  he  motioned 
me  with  his  hand  to  be  still,  — “hush!  not  a word!  ” 

The  eager  glare  of  madness  was  in  his  eye  as  he  spoke, 
and  a tremulous  movement  of  his  pale  cheek  betokened 
some  great  inward  convulsion.  He  threw  his  eyes  slowly 
around  the  miserable  room,  looking  below  and  above  with 
the  scrutinizing  glance  of  one  resolved  to  let  nothing  escape 
his  observation ; and  then  kneeling  down  on  one  knee  beside 
the  blaze  he  took  a piece  of  dry  wood,  and  stole  it  quietly 
among  the  embers. 

“There,  there!”  cried  he,  springing  to  his  legs,  while 
he  seized  me  rudely  by  the  shoulder,  and  hurried  me  to  the 
distant  end  of  the  room.  “Come  quickly!  stand  back, 
stand  back  there!  see,  see!”  said  he,  as  the  crackling 
sparks  flew  up  and  the  tongued  flame  rose  in  the  chimney, 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“there  it  goes!”  Then  putting  his  lips  to  my  ear  he  mut- 
tered, “Not  a word!  silence!  silence  to  the  death!  ” 

As  he  said  this,  he  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
and  crossing  his  arms  upon  his  breast  stood  firm  and  erect 
before  me,  and  certainly,  covered  with  rags  the  meanest 
poverty  would  have  rejected,  shrunk  by  famine  and  chilled 
by  hunger  and  storm,  there  was  still  remaining  in  him  the 
traits  of  a once  noble  face  and  figure.  The  lire  of  mad- 
ness, unquenched  by  every  misery,  lit  up  his  dark  eye, 
and  even  on  his  compressed  lip  there  was  a curl  of  pride. 
Poor  fellow!  some  pleasant  memory  seemed  to  flit  across 
him;  he  smiled,  and  as  he  moved  his  hair  from  his  fore- 
head he  bowed  his  head  slightly,  and  murmured,  “Oui, 
sire!  ” How  soft,  how  musical  that  voice  was  then!  Just 
at  this  instant  the  deep  bleating  of  the  sheep  was  heard 
without,  and  Tete-noir,  springing  up,  rushed  to  the  door, 
and  scratched  fiercely  with  his  fore-paws.  The  shepherd 
hastened  to  open  it,  and  to  my  surprise  I beheld  a boy 
about  twelve  years  of  age,  poorly  clad  and  dripping  with 
wet,  who  was  carrying  a small  canvas  bag  on  his  back. 

“Has  the  lamb  been  found,  Lazare?”  said  the  child,  as 
he  unslung  his  little  sack. 

“Yes;  ’tis  safe  in  the  fold.” 

“And  the  spotted  ewe?  You  don’t  think  the  wolves 
could  have  taken  her  away  so  early  as  this  — ” 

“Hush,  hush!”  said  the  shepherd,  with  a warning  ges- 
ture to  the  child,  who  seemed  at  once  to  see  that  the  luna- 
tic’s vision  was  on  him;  for  he  drew  his  little  blouse  close 
around  his  throat,  and  muttered  a “Bonjour,  Lazare,”  and 
departed. 

“Couldn’t  that  boy  guide  me  down  to  Spa,  or  some 
village  near  it?”  said  T,  anxious  to  seize  an  opportunity 
of  escape. 

He  looked  at  me  without  seeming  to  understand  my 
question.  I repeated  it  more  slowly,  when,  as  if  suddenly 
aware  of  my  meaning,  he  replied  quickly,  — 

“No,  no;  little  Pierre  has  a long  road  to  go  home;  he 
lives  far  away  in  the  mountains.  1 ’ll  show  you  the  way 
myself.” 

With  that,  he  opened  the  sack,  and  took  forth  a loaf  of 


A MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURE. 


289 


coarse  wheaten  bread,  such  as  the  poorest  cottagers  make, 
and  a tin  flask  of  milk.  Tearing  the  loaf  asunder,  he 
handed  me  one  half,  which  more  from  policy  than  hunger, 
though  I had  endured  a long  fast,  I accepted.  Then  pass- 
ing the  milk  towards  me  he  made  a sign  for  me  to  drink, 
and  when  I had  done,  seized  the  flask  himself,  and  nodding 
gayly  with  his  head,  cried,  “A  vous,  camarade.”  Simple 
as  the  gesture  and  few  the  words,  they  both  convinced  me 
that  he  had  been  a soldier  once;  and  each  moment  only 
strengthened  me  in  the  impression  that  I had  before  me  in 
the  shepherd  Lazare  an  officer  of  the  Grande  Armee,  — one 
of  those  heroes  of  a hundred  tights,  whose  glory  was  the 
tributary  stream  in  the  great  ocean  of  the  Empire’s 
grandeur. 

Our  meal  was  soon  concluded,  and  in  silence;  and 
Lazare,  having  replenished  his  tire,  went  to  the  door 
and  looked  out. 

“It  will  be  wilder  ere  night,”  said  he,  as  he  peered  into 
the  dense  mist,  which,  pressed  down  by  rain,  lay  like  a 
pall  upon  the  earth;  “if  you  are  a good  walker,  I’ll  take 
you  by  a short  way  to  Spa.” 

“I  ’ll  do  my  best,”  said  I,  “to  follow  you.” 

“The  mountain  is  easy  enough;  but  there  may  be  a 
stream  or  two  swollen  by  the  rains.  They  are  sometimes 
dangerous.” 

“ What  distance  are  we  then  from  Spa?  ” 

“ Four  leagues  and  a half  by  the  nearest  route,  — seven 
and  a half  by  the  road.  Come,  Tete-noir,  bonne  bete,” 
said  he,  patting  the  savage  beast,  who  with  a rude  gesture 
of  his  tail  evinced  his  joy  at  the  recognition.  “Thou  must 
be  on  guard  to-day;  take  care  of  these  for  me,  — that  thou 
wilt,  old  fellow;  farewell,  good  beast,  good-by!” 

The  animal,  as  if  he  understood  every  word,  stood  with 
his  red  eyes  fixed  upon  him  till  he  had  done,  and  then 
answered  by  a long  low  howl.  Lazare  smiled  with  pleas- 
ure, as  he  waved  his  hand  towards  him,  and  led  the  way 
from  the  tower. 

I had  but  time  to  leave  two  louis-d’ors  on  the  block  of 
wood,  when  he  called  out  to  me  to  follow  him.  The  pace 
he  walked  at.  as  well  as  the  rugged  course  of  the  way  he 

19 


290 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


took,  prevented  my  keeping  at  Lis  side;  and  I could  only 
track  him  as  he  moved  along  through  the  misty  rain,  like 
some  genius  of  the  storm,  his  long  locks  flowing  wildly 
behind  him,  and  his  tattered  garments  fluttering  in  the 
wind. 

It  was  a toilsome  and  dreary  march,  unrelieved  by  aught 
to  lessen  the  fatigue.  Lazare  never  spoke  one  word  the 
entire  time;  occasionally  he  would  point  with  his  staff  to 
the  course  we  were  to  take,  or  mark  the  flight  of  some 
great  bird  of  prey  soaring  along  near  the  ground,  as  if 
fearless  of  man  in  regious  so  wild  and  desolate;  save 
at  these  moments,  he  seemed  buried  in  his  own  gloomy 
thoughts.  Four  hours  of  hard  walking  brought  us  at  last 
to  the  summit  of  a great  mountain,  from  which,  as  the 
mist  was  considerably  cleared  away,  I could  perceive  a num- 
ber of  lesser  mountains  surrounding  it,  like  the  waves  of 
the  sea.  My  guide  pointed  to  the  ground,  as  if  recom- 
mending a rest,  and  I willingly  threw  myself  on  the  heath, 
damp  and  wet  as  it  was. 

The  rest  was  a short  one;  he  soon  motioned  me  to 
resume  the  way,  and  we  plodded  onward  for  an  hour 
longer,  when  we  came  to  a great  table-land  of  several 
miles  in  extent,  but  which  still  I could  perceive  was  on 
a very  high  level.  At  last  we  reached  a little  grove  of 
stunted  pines,  where  a rude  cross  of  stone  stood,  — a mark 
to  commemorate  the  spot  where  a murder  had  been  com- 
mitted, and  to  entreat  prayers  for  the  discovery  of  the 
murderers.  Here  Lazare  stopped,  and  pointing  to  a little 
narrow  path  in  the  heather,  he  said,  — 

“Spa  is  scarce  two  leagues  distant;  it  lies  in  the  valley 
yonder;  follow  this  path,  and  you  ’ll  not  fail  to  reach  it.” 

While  I proffered  my  thanks  to  him  for  his  guidance,  I 
could  not  help  expressing  my  wish  to  make  some  slight 
return  for  it.  A dark,  disdainful  look  soon  stopped  me  in 
my  speech,  and  I turned  it  off  in  a desire  to  leave  some 
souvenir  of  my  night’s  lodging  behind  me  in  the  old  tower. 
But  even  this  he  would  not  hear  of;  and  when  I stretched 
out  my  hand  to  bid  him  good-by,  he  took  it  with  a cold 
and  distant  courtesy,  as  though  he  were  condescending  to 
a favor  he  had  no  fancy  for. 


A MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURE. 


291 


“Adieu,  Monsieur,”  said  I,  still  tempted,  by  a last  effort 
of  allusion  to  his  once  condition,  to  draw  something  from 
him,  — “adieu!  ” 

He  approached  me  nearer,  and  with  a voice  of  tremulous 
eagerness,  he  muttered,  — 

“Not  a word  yonder,  not  a syllable!  Pledge  me  your 
faith  in  that ! ” 

Thinking  now  that  it  was  merely  the  recurrence  of  his 
paroxysm,  1 answered  carelessly,  “Never  fear,  I’ll  say 
nothing.” 

“Yes,  but  swear  it,”  said  he,  with  a fixed  look  of  his 
dark  eye;  “swear  it  to  me  now,  that  so  long  as  you  are 
below  there,” — he  pointed  to  the  valley, — “you  will 
never  speak  of  me.” 

I made  him  the  promise  he  required,  though  with  great 
unwillingness,  as  my  curiosity  to  learn  something  about 
him  was  becoming  intense. 

“Not  a word!  ” said  he,  with  a finger  on  his  lip,  “that ’s 
the  consigned 

“Not  a word!  ” repeated  I,  and  we  parted. 


CHAPTER  XVH. 


THE  BORE.  A SOLDIER  OF  THE  EMPIRE. 

Two  hours  after,  I was  enjoying  the  pleasant  fire  of  the 
Hotel  de  Flandre,  where  I arrived  in  time  for  table  d’hote, 
not  a little  to  the  surprise  of  the  host  and  six  waiters,  who 
were  totally  lost  in  conjectures  to  account  for  my  route, 
and  sorely  puzzled  to  ascertain  the  name  of  my  last  hotel 
in  the  mountains. 

A watering-place  at  the  close  of  a season  is  always  a 
sad-looking  thing.  The  barricades  of  the  coming  winter 
already  begin  to  show;  the  little  statues  in  public  gardens 
are  assuming  their  great  coats  of  straw  against  the  rigors 
of  frost;  the  jets-d’eau  cease  to  play,  or  perform  with  the 
unwilling  air  of  actors  to  empty  benches;  the  tables  d’hote 
present  their  long  dinner-rooms  unoccupied,  save  by  a little 
table  at  one  end,  where  some  half-dozen  shivering  inmates 
still  remain,  the  debris  of  the  mighty  army  who  flourished 
their  knives  there  but  six  weeks  before,  — these  half-dozen 
usually  consisting  of  a stray  invalid  or  two,  completing  his 
course  of  the  waters,  having  a fortnight  of  sulphuretted 
hydrogen  before  him  yet,  and  not  daring  to  budge  till  he 
has  finished  his  “heeltap”  of  abomination.  Then  there’s 
the  old  half-pay  major,  that  has  lived  in  Spa,  for  aught  I 
know,  since  the  siege  of  Namur,  and  who  passes  his  nine 
months  of  winter  in  shooting  quails  and  playing  dominos; 
and  there ’s  an  elderly  lady,  with  spectacles,  always  work- 
ing at  a little  embroidery  frame,  who  speaks  no  French, 
and  seems  not  to  be  aware  of  anything  going  on  around 
her, — no  one  being  able  to  guess  why  she  is  there,  and 
she  probably  not  knowing,  herself.  Lastly,  there  is  a very 
distracted-looking  young  gentleman,  with  a shooting-jacket 
and  young  mustaches,  who  having  been  “cleaned  out”  at 
rouge  et  noir,  is  waiting  in  the  hope  of  a remittance  from 
some  commiserating  relative  in  England. 


THE  BORE. 


293 


The  theatre  is  closed;  its  little  stars,  dispersed  among 
the  small  capitals,  have  shrunk  back  to  their  former  pro- 
portions of  third  and  fourth-rate  parts,  — for  though  but- 
terflies in  July,  they  are  mere  grubs  in  December.  The 
clink  of  the  croupier’s  mace  is  no  longer  heard,  revelling 
amid  the  five-franc  pieces;  all  is  still  and  silent  in  that 
room  which  so  late  the  conflict  of  human  passion,  hope, 
envy,  fear,  and  despair,  had  made  a very  hell  on  earth. 

The  donkeys,  too,  who  but  the  other  day  were  decked 
in  scarlet  trappings,  are  now  despoiled  of  their  gay  pano- 
ply, and  condemned  to  the  mean  drudgery  of  the  cart. 
Poor  beasts!  their  drooping  ears  and  fallen  heads  seem  to 
show  some  sense  of  their  changed  fortunes;  no  longer  bear- 
ing the  burden  of  some  fair-cheeked  girl  or  laughing  boy 
along  the  mountain  side,  they  are  brought  down  to  the 
daily  labor  of  the  cottage,  and  a cutlet  is  no  more  like  a 
mutton-chop  than  a donkey  is  like  an  ass. 

So  does  everything  suffer  a “sea-change.”  The  modiste , 
whose  pretty  cap  with  its  gay  ribbons  was  itself  an  adver- 
tisement of  her  wares,  has  taken  to  a close  bonnet  and  a 
woollen  shawl,  — a metamorphosis  as  complete  as  is  the 
misshapen  mass  of  cloaks  and  mud-boots  of  the  agile  dan- 
seuse , who  flitted  between  earth  and  air  a few  moments 
before.  Even  the  doctor  — and  what  a study  is  the  doctor 
of  a watering-place ! — even  he  has  laid  by  his  smiles  and 
his  soft  speeches,  folded  up  in  the  same  drawer  with  his 
black  coat  for  the  winter.  He  has  not  thrown  physic  to 
the  dogs,  because  he  is  fond  of  sporting,  and  would  not 
injure  the  poor  beasts,  but  he  has  given  it  an  an  revoir ; 
and  as  grouse  come  in  with  autumn,  and  blackcock  in 
November,  so  does  he  feel  chalybeates  are  in  season  on 
the  first  of  May.  Exchanging  his  cane  for  a Manton,  and 
his  mild  whisper  for  a dog-whistle,  he  takes  to  the  pursuit 
of  the  lower  animals,  leaving  men  for  the  warmer  months. 

All  this  disconcerts  one.  You  hate  to  be  present  at 
those  demenagements , where  the  curtains  are  taking  down, 
and  the  carpet  is  taking  up;  where  they  are  nailing  canvas 
across  pictures,  and  storing  books  into  pantries.  These 
smaller  revolutions  are  all  very  detestable,  and  you  gladly 
escape  into  some  quiet  and  retired  spot,  and  wait  till  the 


294 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


fussing  be  over.  So  felt  I.  Had  I come  a month  later, 
this  place  would  have  suited  me  perfectly,  but  this  process 
of  human  moulting  is  horrible  to  witness;  and  so,  say  I 
once  more,  En  route. 

Like  a Dutchman  who  took  a run  of  three  miles  to  jump 
over  a hill,  and  then  sat  down  tired  at  the  foot  of  it,  I 
flurried  myself  so  completely  in  canvassing  all  the  possible 
places  I might,  could,  would,  should,  or  ought  to  pass  the 
winter  in,  that  I actually  took  a fortnight  to  recover  my 
energies  before  I could  set  out. 

Meanwhile  I had  made  a close  friendship  with  a dys- 
peptic countryman  of  mine,  who  went  about  the  Continent 
with  a small  portmanteau  and  a very  large  medicine-chest, 
chasing  health  from  Haples  to  Paris,  and  from  Aix-la- 
Chapelle  to  Wildbad,  firmly  persuaded  that  every  coun- 
try had  only  one  month  in  the  year  at  most  wherein  it 
were  safe  to  live  there,  — Spa  being  the  appropriate  place 
to  pass  the  October.  He  cared  nothing  for  the  ordinary 
topics  that  engross  the  attention  of  mankind;  kings  might 
be  dethroned  and  dynasties  demolished;  states  might  revolt 
and  subjects  be  rebellious,  — all  he  wanted  to  know  was, 
not  what  changes  were  made  in  the  code  but  in  the  pharma- 
copoeia. The  liberty  of  the  Press  was  a matter  of  indiffer- 
ence to  him;  he  cared  little  for  what  men  might  say,  but  a 
great  deal  for  what  it  was  safe  to  swallow,  and  looked  upon 
the  inventor  of  blue-pill  as  the  greatest  benefactor  of  man- 
kind. He  had  the  analysis  of  every  well  and  spring  in 
Germany  at  his  fingers’  end,  and  could  tell  you  the  tem- 
perature and  atomic  proportions  like  his  alphabet.  But 
his  great  system  was  a kind  of  reciprocity  treaty  between 
health  and  sickness,  by  which  a man  could  commit  any 
species  of  gluttony  he  pleased  when  he  knew  the  peculiar 
antagonist  principle.  And  thus  he  ate  — I was  going  to 
say  like  a shark,  but  let  me  not  in  my  ignorance  calum- 
niate the  fish;  for  T know  not  if  anything  that  ever  swam 
could  eat  a soup  with  a custard  pudding,  followed  by  beef 
and  beetroot,  stewed  mackerel  and  treacle,  pickled  oysters 
and  preserved  cherries,  roast  hare  and  cucumber,  venison, 
salad,  prunes,  hashed  mutton,  omelettes,  pastry,  and  finally, 
to  wind  up  with  effect,  a sturgeon  baked  with  brandy-peaches 


THE  BORE. 


295 


in  his  abdomen,  — a thing  to  make  a cook  weep  and  a Ger- 
man blessed.  Such  was  my  poor  friend,  Mr.  Bartholomew 
Cater,  the  most  thin,  spare,  emaciated,  and  miserable- 
looking  man  that  ever  sipped  at  Schwalbach  or  shivered 
at  Kissingen. 

To  permit  these  extravagancies  in  diet,  however,  he  had 
concocted  a code  of  reprisals,  consisting  of  the  various 
mineral  waters  of  Germany  and  the  poisonous  metals  of 
modern  pharmacy;  and  having  established  the  fact  that 
“bitter  wasser”  and  “Carlsbad,”  the  “Powon”  and  “Pil- 
nitz,”  combined  with  blue-pill,  were  the  natural  enemies 
of  all  things  eatable,  he  swallowed  these  freely,  and  then 
left  the  matter  to  the  rebellious  ingredients,  — pretty  much 
as  the  English  used  to  govern  Ireland  in  times  gone  by: 
set  both  parties  by  the  ears,  and  wait  the  result  in  peace; 
well  aware  that  a slight  derangement  of  the  balance,  from 
time  to  time,  would  keep  the  contest  in  motion.  Such  was 
the  state  policy  of  Mr.  Cater,  and  I can  only  say  that  his 
constitution  survived  it,  though  that  of  Ireland  seems  to 
suffer  grievously  from  the  experiment. 

This  lively  gentleman  was  then  my  companion;  indeed, 
with  that  cohesive  property  of  your  true  bore,  he  was  ever 
beside  me,  relating  some  little  interesting  anecdote  of  a 
jaundice  or  a dropsy,  a tertian  or  a typhus,  by  which 
agreeable  souvenirs  he  preserved  the  memory  of  Athens 
or  Naples,  Borne  or  Dresden,  fresh  and  unclouded  in  his 
mind.  Not  satisfied,  however,  with  narration,  like  all 
enthusiasts  he  would  be  proselytizing;  and  whether  from 
the  force  of  his  arguments  or  the  weakness  of  my  nature, 
he  found  a ready  victim  in  me,  insomuch  that  under  his 
admirable  instruction  I was  already  beginning  to  feel  a 
dislike  and  disgust  to  all  things  eatable,  with  an  appetite 
only  grown  more  ravenous,  while  my  reverence  for  all 
springs  of  unsavory  taste  and  smell,  — once,  I must  con- 
fess, at  a deplorably  low  ebb, — was  gradually  becoming 
more  developed.  It  was  only  by  the  accidental  discovery 
that  my  waistcoat  could  be  made  to  fit  by  putting  it  twice 
round  me,  and  that  my  coat  was  a dependency  of  which  I 
was  scarcely  the  nucleus,  that  I really  became  frightened. 
“What!”  thought  I,  “can  this  be  that  Arthur  O’Leary 


296 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


whom  men  jested  on  his  rotundity?  Is  this  me,  around 
whom  children  ran,  as  they  would  about  a pillar  or  a 
monument,  and  thought  it  exercise  to  circumambulate? 
Arthur,  this  will  be  the  death  of  thee;  thou  wert  a happy 
man  and  a fat  before  thou  knewest  Koch  brunnens  and 
thermometers;  run  while  it  is  yet  time,  and  be  thankful 
at  least  that  thou  art  in  racing  condition.” 

With  noiseless  step  and  cautious  gesture,  I crept  down 
stairs  one  morning  at  daybreak.  My  enemy  was  still 
asleep.  I heard  him  muttering  as  I passed  his  door; 
doubtless  he  was  dreaming  of  some  new  combination  of 
horrors,  some  infernal  alliance  of  cucumbers  and  quinine. 
I passed  on  in  silence ; my  very  teeth  chattered  with  fear. 
Happy  was  I to  have  them  to  chatter!  another  fortnight 
of  his  intimacy,  and  they  would  have  trembled  from  blue- 
pill  as  well  as  panic!  With  a heavy  sigh  I paid  my  bill, 
and  crossed  the  street  towards  the  diligence  office.  One 
place  only  remained  vacant,  — it  was  in  the  banquette.  No 
matter,  thought  I,  anywhere  will  do  at  present. 

“Where  is  Monsieur  going?  — for  there  will  be  a place 
vacant  in  the  coupe  at  — ” 

“I  have  not  thought  of  that  yet,”  said  I;  “but  when  we 
reach  Vervier  we  ’ll  see.” 

“Allons,  then,”  said  the  conducteur,  while  he  whispered 
to  the  clerk  of  the  office  a few  words  I could  not  catch. 

“You  are  mistaken,  friend,”  said  I;  “it’s  not  creditors, 
they  are  only  chalybeates  I ’in  running  from;”  and  so  we 
started. 

Before  I follow  out  any  further  my  own  ramblings,  I 
should  like  to  acquit  a debt  I owe  my  reader  — if  I dare 
flatter  myself  that  he  cares  for  its  discharge  — by  return- 
ing to  the  story  of  the  poor  shepherd  of  the  mountains, 
and  which  1 cannot  more  seasonably  do  than  at  this  place; 
although  the  details  I am  about  to  relate  were  furnished 
to  me  a great  many  years  after  this,  and  during  a visit  I 
paid  to  Lyons  in  1828. 

In  the  Cafe  de  la  Coupe  d’Or,  so  conspicuous  in  the 
Place  des  Terreaux,  where  I usually  resorted  to  pass  my 
evenings,  and  indulge  in  the  cheap  luxuries  of  my  coffee 
and  cheroot,  1 happened  to  make  a bowing  acquaintance 


A SOLDIER  OF  THE  EMPIRE. 


297 


with  a venerable  elderly  gentleman,  who  each  night  re- 
sorted there  to  read  the  papers,  and  amuse  himself  by 
looking  over  the  chess-players,  with  which  the  room  was 
crowded.  Some  accidental  interchange  of  newspapers  led 
to  a recognition,  and  that  again  advanced  to  a few  words 
each  time  we  met,  — till  one  evening,  chance  placed  us  at 
the  same  table,  and  we  chatted  away  several  hours,  and 
parted  in  the  hope,  mutually  expressed,  of  renewing  our 
acquaintance  at  an  early  period. 

I had  no  difficulty  in  interrogating  the  dame  du  cafe 
about  my  new  acquaintance.  He  was  a striking  and 
remarkable-looking  personage,  tall  and  military-looking, 
with  an  air  of  grand  seigneur , which  in  a Frenchman 
is  never  deceptive;  certainly  1 never  saw  it  successfully 
assumed  by  any  who  had  no  right  to  it.  He  wore  his  hair 
en  queue , and  in  his  dress  evinced,  in  several  trifling  mat- 
ters, an  adherence  to  the  habitudes  of  the  old  regime , — 
so,  at  least,  I interpreted  his  lace  ruffles  and  silk  stock- 
ings, with  his  broad  buckles  of  brilliants  in  his  shoes. 
The  ribbon  of  St.  Louis,  which  he  wore  unostentatiously 
on  his  waistcoat,  was  his  only  decoration. 

“That  is  the  Vicomte  de  Berlemont,  ancien  colonel-en- 
cheff  said  she,  with  an  accent  of  pride  at  the  mention  of 
so  distinguished  a frequenter  of  the  cafe ; “he  has  not 
missed  an  evening  here  for  years  past.” 

A few  more  words  of  inquiry  elicited  from  her  the 
information  that  the  vicomte  had  served  in  all  the  wars 
of  the  empire  up  to  the  time  of  the  abdication;  that  on 
the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons  he  had  received  his  rank 
in  the  service  from  them,  and,  faithful  to  their  fortunes, 
had  followed  Louis  XVIII.  in  exile  to  Ghent. 

“He  has  seen  a deal  of  the  world,  then,  Madame,  it 
would  appear?” 

“That  he  has,  and  loves  to  speak  about  it  too;  time  was 
when  they  reckoned  the  vicomte  among  the  pleasantest 
persons  in  Lyons;  but  they  say  he  has  grown  old  now, 
and  contracted  a habit  of  repeating  his  stories.  I can’t 
tell  how  that  may  be,  but  I think  him  always  amiable.” 
A delightful  word  that  same  “amiable”  is!  and  so  think- 
ing, I wished  Madame  good-night,  and  departed. 


298 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


The  next  evening  I lay  in  wait  for  the  old  colonel,  and 
was  flattered  to  see  that  he  was  taking  equal  pains  to  dis- 
cover me.  We  retired  to  a little  table,  ordered  our  coffee, 
and  chatted  away  till  midnight.  Such  was  the  commence- 
ment, such  the  course,  of  one  of  the  pleasantest  intimacies 
I ever  formed. 

The  vicomte  was  unquestionably  the  most  agreeable 
specimen  of  his  nation  I had  ever  met, — easy  and  unaf- 
fected in  his  manner,  having  seen  much,  'and  observed 
shrewdly;  not  much  skilled  in  book  learning,  but  deeply 
read  in  mankind.  His  views  of  politics  were  of  that  unex- 
aggerated character  which  are  so  often  found  correct;  while 
of  his  foresight  I can  give  no  higher  token  than  that  he 
then  predicted  to  me  the  events  of  the  year  1830,  only 
erring  as  to  the  time,  which  he  deemed  might  not  be  so 
far  distant.  The  empire,  however,  and  Napoleon  were 
his  favorite  topics.  Bourbonist  as  he  was,  the  splendor 
of  France  in  1810  and  1811,  the  greatness  of  the  mighty 
man  whose  genius  then  ruled  its  destinies,  had  captivated 
his  imagination,  and  he  would  talk  for  hours  over  the 
events  of  Parisian  life  at  that  period,  and  the  more  brill- 
iant incidents  of  the  campaigns. 

It  was  in  one  of  our  conversations,  prolonged  beyond  the 
usual  time,  in  discussing  the  characters  of  those  immedi- 
ately about  the  person  of  the  Emperor,  that  I felt  some- 
what struck  by  the  remark  he  made,  that,  while  “Napoleon 
did  meet  unquestionably  many  instances  of  deep  ingrati- 
tude from  those  whom  he  had  covered  with  honors  and 
heaped  with  favors,  nothing  ever  equalled  the  attachment 
the  officers  of  the  army  generally  bore  to  his  person,  and 
the  devotion  they  felt  for  his  glory  and  his  honor.  It 
was  not  a sentiment,”  he  said,  “it  was  a religious  belief 
among  the  young  men  of  my  day  that  the  Emperor  could 
do  no  wrong.  What  you  assume  in  your  country  by  cour- 
tesy, we  believed  de  facto.  So  many  times  had  events, 
seeming  most  disastrous,  turned  out  pregnant  with  advan- 
tage and  success,  that  a dilemma  was  rather  a subject  of 
amusing  speculation  amongst  us  than  a matter  of  doubt 
and  despondency.  There  came  a terrible  reverse  to  all 
this,  however,”  continued  he,  as  his  voice  fell  to  a lower 


A SOLDIER  OF  THE  EMPIRE. 


299 


and  sadder  key;  “a  fearful  lesson  was  in  store  for  us. 
Poor  Aubuisson — ” 

“ Aubuisson!  ” said  I,  starting;  “was  that  the  name  you 
mentioned?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  he,  in  amazement;  “have  you  heard  the 
story,  then?” 

“No,”  said  I,  “I  know  of  no  story;  it  was  the  name 
alone  struck  me.  Was  it  not  one  of  that  name  who 
was  mentioned  in  one  of  Bonaparte’s  despatches  from 
Egypt?” 

“To  be  sure  it  was,  and  the  same  man  too;  he  was 
the  first  in  the  trenches  at  Alexandria;  he  carried  off 
a Mameluke  chief  his  prisoner  at  the  battle  of  the 
Pyramids.” 

“What  manner  of  man  was  he?” 

“ A powerful  fellow,  one  of  the  largest  of  his  regiment, 
and  they  were  a Grenadier  battalion;  lie  had  black  hair 
and  black  mustache,  which  he  wore  long  and  drooping,  in 
Egyptian  fashion.” 

“ The  same,  the  very  same ! ” cried  I,  carried  away  by 
my  excitement.” 

“What  do  you  mean?”  said  the  colonel;  “you  ’ve  never 
seen  him,  surely;  he  died  at  Charenton  the  same  year 
Waterloo  was  fought.” 

“No  such  thing,”  said  I,  feeling  convinced  that  Lazare 
was  the  person.  “I  saw  him  alive  much  later;”  and  with 
that  I related  the  story  I have  told  my  reader,  detailing 
minutely  every  little  particular  which  might  serve  to  con- 
firm my  impression  of  the  identity. 

“No,  no,”  said  the  vicomte,  shaking  his  head,  “you  must 
be  mistaken;  Aubuisson  was  a patient  at  Charenton  for  ten 
years,  when  he  died.  The  circumstances  you  mention  are 
certainly  both  curious  and  strange,  but  I cannot  think  they 
have  any  connection  with  the  fortunes  of  poor  Gustave;  at 
all  events,  if  you  like  to  hear  the  story,  come  home  with 
me,  and  I ’ll  tell  it;  the  cafe  is  about  to  close  now,  and  we 
must  leave.” 

I gladly  accepted  the  offer,  for  whatever  doubts  he  had 
concerning  Lazare’s  identity  with  Aubuisson,  my  convic- 
tions were  complete,  and  I longed  to  hear  the  solution  of  a 


300 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


mystery  over  which  I had  pondered  many  a day  of  march 
and  many  a sleepless  night. 

I could  scarcely  contain  my  impatience  during  supper. 
The  thought  of  Lazare  absorbed  everything  in  my  mind, 
and  I fancied  the  old  colonel’s  appetite  knew  no  bounds 
when  the  meal  had  lasted  about  a quarter  of  an  hour.  At 
last  having  finished,  and  devised  his  modest  glass  of  weak 
wine  and  water,  he  began  the  story,  of  which  I present  the 
leading  features  to  my  readers,  omitting,  of  course,  those 
little  occasional  digressions  and  reflections  by  which  the 
narrator  himself  accompanied  his  tale. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  LEIPSIC. 

“ The  third  day  of  the  disastrous  battle  of  Leipsic  was 
drawing  to  a close,  as  the  armies  of  the  coalition  made  one 
terrible  and  fierce  attack,  in  concert,  against  the  imperial 
forces.  Never  was  anything  before  heard  like  the  deafen- 
ing thunder,  as  three  hundred  guns  of  heavy  artillery 
opened  their  fire  at  once  from  end  to  end  of  the  line,  and 
three  hundred  thousand  men  advanced,  wildly  cheering,  to 
the  attack. 

“Wearied,  worn  out,  and  exhausted,  the  French  army 
held  their  ground,  like  men  prepared  to  die  before  their 
Emperor,  but  never  desert  him,  when  the  fearful  intelli- 
gence was  brought  to  Napoleon  that  in  three  days  the  army 
had  fired  ninety-five  thousand  cannon  balls;1  that  the 
reserve  ammunition  was  entirely  consumed,  and  but  six- 
teen thousand  cannon  balls  remained,  barely  sufficient  to 
maintain  the  fire  two  hours  longer ! What  was  to  be  done? 
No  resources  lay  nearer  than  Magdeburg  or  Erfurt.  To 
the  latter  place  the  Emperor  at  once  decided  on  retiring, 
and  at  seven  o’clock  the  order  was  given  for  the  artillery 
wagons  and  baggage  to  pass  the  defile  of  Lindenau,  and 
retreat  over  the  Elster,  the  same  order  being  transmitted 
to  the  cavalry  and  the  other  corps  of  the  army.  The  defile 
was  a long  and  difficult  one,  extending  for  two  leagues, 
and  traversing  several  bridges.  To  accomplish  the  retreat 
in  safety,  Napoleon  was  counselled  to  hold  the  allies  in 
check  by  a strong  force  of  artillery,  and  then  set  fire  to  the 
faubourg;  but  the  conduct  of  the  Saxon  troops,  however 
deserving  of  his  anger,  could  not  warrant  a punishment 
so  fearful  on  the  monarch  of  that  country,  who,  through 
every  change  of  fortune,  had  stood  steady  in  his  friend- 


1 Historical. 


802 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


ship.  He  rejected  the  course  at  once,  and  determined  on 
retreating  as  best  he  might. 

“The  movement  was  then  begun  at  once,  and  every 
avenue  that  led  to  the  faubourg  of  Lindenau  was  crowded 
by  troops  of  all  arms,  eagerly  pressing  onward,  — a fearful 
scene  of  confusion  and  dismay,  for  it  was  a beaten  army 
that  fled,  and  one  which  until  now  never  had  thoroughly 
felt  the  horrors  of  defeat.  From  seven  until  nine  the  col- 
umns came  on  at  a quick  step,  the  cavalry  at  a trot;  defil- 
ing along  the  narrow  gorge  of  Lindenau,  they  passed  a mill 
at  the  roadside,  where  at  a window  stood  one  with  arms 
crossed  and  head  bent  upon  his  bosom.  He  gazed  stead- 
fastly at  the  long  train  beneath,  but  never  noticed  the 
salutes  of  the  general  officers  as  they  passed  along.  It 
was  the  Emperor  himself,  pale  and  careworn,  his  low 
chapeau  pressed  down  far  on  his  brows,  and  his  uniform 
splashed  and  travel-stained.  For  above  an  hour  he  stood 
thus  silent  and  motionless;  then  throwing  himself  upon  a 
bed  he  slept.  Yes;  amid  all  the  terrible  events  of  that 
disastrous  retreat,  when  the  foundations  of  the  mighty 
empire  he  had  created  were  crumbling  beneath  him,  when 
the  great  army  he  had  so  often  led  to  victory  was  defiling 
beaten  before  him,  he  laid  him  wearied  upon  a pillow  and 
slept ! 

“A  terrible  cannonade,  the  fire  of  seventy  large  guns 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  ramparts,  shook  the  very  earth, 
and  at  length  awoke  Napoleon,  who  through  all  the  din 
and  clamor  had  slept  soundly  and  tranquilly. 

What  is  it,  Duroc?  ’ said  he,  raising  himself  upon  one 
arm,  and  looking  up. 

“ ‘ It  is  Swartzenberg’s  attack,  Sire,  on  the  rampart  of 
Halle.’ 

“‘  Fla!  so  near?’  said  he,  springing  up  and  approaching 
the  window,  from  which  the  bright  flashes  of  the  artillery 
were  each  moment  discernible  in  the  dark  sky.  At  the 
same  moment  an  aide-de-camp  galloped  up,  and  dismounted 
at  the  door;  in  another  minute  he  was  in  the  room. 

“The  Saxon  troops,  left  by  the  Emperor  as  a guard  of 
honor  and  protection  to  the  unhappy  monarch,  had  opened 
a fire  on  the  retreating  columns,  and  a fearful  confusion 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  LEIPSIC. 


303 


was  the  result.  The  Emperor  spoke  not  a word.  Mac- 
donald’s corps  and  Poniatowski’s  division  were  still  in 
Leipsic;  but  already  they  had  commenced  their  retiring 
movement  on  Lindenau.  Lauriston’s  brigade  was  also 
rapidly  approaching  the  bridge  over  the  Elster,  to  which 
now  the  men  were  hurrying  madly,  intent  alone  on  flight. 
The  bridge  — the  only  one  by  which  the  troops  could  pass 
— had  been  mined,  and  committed  to  the  charge  of  Colonel 
Montfort  of  the  Engineers,  with  directions  to  blow  it  up 
when  the  enemy  appeared,  and  thus  gain  time  for  the  bag- 
gage to  retreat. 

“As  the  aide-de-camp  stood  awaiting  Napoleon’s  orders 
in  reply  to  a few  lines  written  in  pencil  by  the  Duke  of 
Tarento,  another  staff-officer  arrived,  breathless,  to  say  that 
the  allies  had  carried  the  rampart,  and  were  already  in 
Leipsic.  Napoleon  became  deadly  pale;  then,  with  a 
motion  of  his  hand,  he  signed  to  the  officer  to  withdraw. 

“ ‘ Duroc,  ’ said  he,  when  they  were  alone,  ‘ where  is 
Nansouty?  ’ 

“‘With  the  eighth  corps,  Sire.  They  have  passed  an 
hour  since.’ 

“‘  Who  commands  the  picquet  without?’ 

“ ‘ Aubuisson,  Sire.’ 

Send  him  to  me,  and  leave  us  alone.’ 

“In  a few  moments  Colonel  Aubuisson  entered.  His 
arm  was  in  a sling  from  a sabre  wound  he  had  received 
the  morning  before,  but  which  did  not  prevent  his  remain- 
ing on  duty.  The  stout  soldier  seemed  as  unconcerned 
and  fearless  in  that  dreadful  moment  as  though  it  were  a 
day  of  gala  manoeuvres,  and  not  one  of  disaster  and  defeat. 

“‘Aubuisson,’  said  the  Emperor,  ‘you  were  with  us  at 
Alexandria?  ’ 

“‘I  was,  Sire,’  said  he,  as  a deeper  tinge  colored  his 
bronzed  features. 

“‘  The  first  in  the  rampart,  — I remember  it  well,’  said 
Napoleon;  ‘ the  ordre  du  jour  commemorates  the  deed.  It 
was  at  Moscowa  you  gained  the  cross,  I believe?  ’ con- 
tinued he,  after  a slight  pause. 

“‘  I never  obtained  it,  Sire,’  replied  Aubuisson,  with  a 
struggle  to  repress  some  disappointment  in  his  tone. 


304 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ ‘ How,  never  obtained  it ! — you,  Aubuisson,  an  ancient 
brave  of  the  Pyramids ! Come,  come,  there  has  been  a mis- 
take somewhere ; we  must  look  to  this.  Meanwhile,  Gen- 
eral Aubuisson,  take  mine.’ 

“With  that  he  detached  his  cordon  from  the  breast  of 
his  uniform,  and  fastened  it  on  the  coat  of  the  astonished 
officer,  who  could  only  mutter  the  words,  ‘Sire,  sire!’  in 
reply. 

“‘Now,  then,  for  a service  you  must  render  me,  and 
speedily,  too,’  said  Napoleon,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
general’s  shoulder. 

“The  Emperor  whispered  for  some  seconds  in  his  ear, 
then  looked  at  him  fixedly  in  the  face.  ‘ What ! ’ cried 
he,  ‘ do  you  hesitate?  ’ 

“ ‘ Hesitate,  Sire  ! ’ said  Aubuisson,  starting  back.  ‘Never  ! 
If  your  Majesty  had  ordered  me  to  the  mouth  of  a mortar  — 
But  I wish  to  know  — ’ 

“ Napoleon  did  not  permit  him  to  conclude,  but  drawing 
him  closer,  whispered  again  a few  words  in  his  ear.  ‘And, 
mark  me,’  said  he,  aloud,  as  he  finished,  ‘ mark  me,  Aubuis- 
son ! silence,  pas  un  mot;  silence,  a la  mort ! ’ 

“‘A  la  mort,  Sire!’  repeated  the  general,  while  at  the 
same  moment  Duroc  hurried  into  the  room,  and  cried 
out,  — 

“‘They  are  advancing  towards  the  Elster;  Macdonald’s 
rear-guard  is  engaged  — ’ 

“A  motion  of  Napoleon’s  hand  towards  the  door  and  a 
look  at  Aubuisson  was  the  only  notice  lie  took  of  the  intel- 
ligence, and  the  officer  was  gone. 

“ While  Duroc  continued  to  detail  the  disastrous  events 
the  last  arrived  news  had  announced,  the  Emperor  ap- 
proached the  window,  which  was  still  open,  and  looked 
out.  All  was  in  darkness  towards  that  part  of  the  city 
near  the  defile.  The  attack  was  on  the  distant  rampart, 
near  which  the  sky  was  red  and  lurid.  Still,  it  was 
towards  that  dark  and  gloomy  part  that  Napoleon’s  eyes 
were  turned,  and  not  in  the  direction  where  the  fight  was 
still  raging.  Peering  into  the  dense  blackness,  he  stood 
without  speaking,  when  suddenly  a bright  gleam  of  light 
shot  up  from  the  gloom,  and  then  came  three  tremendomf 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  LEIPSIC. 


305 


reports,  so  rapidly,  one  after  the  other,  as  almost  to  seem 
like  one.  The  same  instant  a blaze  of  fire  flashed  upwards 
towards  the  sky,  and  glittering  fragments  of  burning  tim- 
ber were  hurled  into  the  air.  Napoleon  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand,  and  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  window. 

“ ‘ It  is  the  bridge  over  the  Elster ! ’ cried  Duroc,  in  a 
voice  half  wild  with  passion.  ‘They  ’ve  blown  up  the 
bridge  before  Macdonald’s  division  have  crossed.’ 

“ ‘ Impossible  ! ’ said  the  Emperor.  ‘ Go  see,  quickly, 
Duroc,  what  has  happened.’ 

“ But  before  the  general  could  leave  the  room,  a wounded 
officer  rushed  in,  his  clothes  covered  with  the  marks  of 
recent  fire. 

“ ‘ The  Sappers,  Sire  ! the  Sappers  — ’ 

What  of  them?  ’ said  the  Emperor. 

“ ‘ They  ’ve  blown  up  the  bridge,  and  the  fourth  corps 
are  still  in  Leipsic.’ 

“The  next  moment  Napoleon  was  on  his  horse,  sur- 
rounded by  his  staff,  and  galloping  furiously  towards  the 
river. 

“Never  was  a scene  more  awful  than  that  which  now 
presented  itself  there.  Hundreds  of  men  had  thrown 
themselves  headlong  into  the  rapid  river,  where  masses 
of  burning  timber  were  falling  on  every  side;  horse  and 
foot  all  mixed  up  in  fearful  confusion  struggled  madly  in 
the  stream,  mingling  their  cries  with  the  shouts  of  those 
who  came  on  from  behind,  and  who  discovered  for  the  first 
time  that  the  retreat  was  cut  off.  The  Duke  of  Tarento 
crossed,  holding  by  his  horse’s  mane.  Lauriston  had 
nearly  reached  the  bank,  when  he  sunk  to  rise  no  more; 
and  Poniatowski,  the  chivalrous  Pole,  the  last  hope  of  his 
nation,  was  seen  for  an  instant  struggling  with  the  waves, 
and  then  disappeared  forever. 

“ Twenty  thousand  men,  sixty  great  guns,  and  above  two 
hundred  wagons  were  thus  left  in  the  power  of  the  enemy. 
Few  who  sought  refuge  in  flight  ever  reached  the  opposite 
bank,  and  for  miles  down,  the  shores  of  the  Elster  were 
marked  by  the  bodies  of  French  soldiers,  who  thus  met 
their  death  on  that  fearful  night. 

“Among  the  disasters  of  this  terrible  retreat  was  the 

20 


306 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


fate  of  Reynier,  of  whom  no  tidings  could  be  had;  nor  was 
it  known  whether  he  died  in  battle,  or  fell  a prisoner  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy.  He  was  the  personal  friend  of 
the  Emperor,  who  in  his  loss  deplored  not  only  the  brave 
and  valorous  soldier,  but  the  steady  adherent  to  his  for- 
tunes through  good  and  evil.  No  more  striking  evidence 
of  the  amount  of  this  misfortune  can  be  had  than  the 
bulletin  of  Napoleon  himself.  That  document,  usually 
devoted  to  the  expression  of  vainglorious  and  exaggerated 
descriptions  of  the  triumphs  of  the  army,  — full  of  those 
high-flown  narratives  by  which  the  glowing  imagination  of 
the  Emperor  conveyed  the  deeds  of  his  soldiers  to  the  won- 
dering ears  of  France,  — was  now  a record  of  mournful 
depression  and  sad  reverse  of  fortune. 

“ ‘ The  French  army,’  said  he,  ‘ continues  its  march  on  Erfurt, — 
a beaten  army.  After  so  many  brilliant  successes,  it  is  now  in 
retreat.’ 

“Every  one  is  already  acquainted  with  the  disastrous 
career  of  that  army,  the  greatest  that  ever  marched  from 
France.  Each  step  of  their  return,  obstinately  contested 
against  overwhelming  superiority  of  force,  however  it 
might  evidence  the  chivalrous  spirit  of  a nation  who 
would  not  confess  defeat,  brought  them  only  nearer  to 
their  own  frontiers,  pursued  by  those  whose  countries  they 
had  violated,  whose  kings  they  had  dethroned,  whose 
liberties  they  had  trampled  on.  The  fearful  Nemesis  of 
war  had  come.  The  hour  was  arrived  when  all  the  wrongs 
they  had  wreaked  on  others  were  to  be  tenfold  inflicted  on 
themselves;  when  the  plains  of  that  ‘belle  France,’  of 
which  they  were  so  proud,  were  to  be  trampled  beneath 
the  feet  of  insulting  conquerors;  when  the  Cossack  and 
the  Hulan  were  to  bivouac  in  that  capital  which  they  so 
arrogantly  styled  ‘ the  centre  of  European  civilization.’ 

“I  need  not  dwell  on  these  things;  I will  but  ask  you  to 
accompany  me  to  Erfurt,  where  the  army  arrived  five  days 
after.  A court-martial  was  there  summoned  for  the  trial 
of  Colonel  Montfort  of  the  Engineers,  and  the  party  under 
his  command,  who  in  violation  of  their  orders  had  prema- 
turely blown  up  the  bridge  over  the  Elster,  and  were  thus 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  LEIPSIC. 


307 


the  cause  of  that  fearful  disaster  by  which  so  many  gallant 
lives  were  sacrificed,  and  the  honor  of  a French  army  so 
grievously  tarnished.  Contrary  to  the  ordinary  custom, 
the  proceedings  of  that  court-martial  were  never  made 
known ; 1 the  tribunal  sat  with  closed  doors,  accessible 
only  to  the  Emperor  himself  and  the  officers  of  his  per- 
sonal staff. 

“On  the  fourth  day  of  the  investigation,  a messenger  was 
despatched  to  Braunach,  a distant  outpost  of  the  army,  to 
bring  up  General  Aubuisson,  who,  it  was  rumored,  was 
somehow  implicated  in  the  transaction.  The  general  took 
his  place  beside  the  other  prisoners,  in  the  full  uniform  of 
his  grade.  He  wore  on  his  breast  the  cross  the  Emperor 
himself  had  given  him,  and  he  carried  at  his  side  the  sabre 
of  honor  he  had  received  on  the  battle-field  of  Eylau. 
Still,  they  who  knew  him  well  remarked  that  his  counte- 
nance no  longer  wore  its  frank  and  easy  expression,  while 
in  his  eye  there  was  a restless,  anxious  look,  as  he  glanced 
from  side  to  side,  and  seemed  troubled  and  suspicious. 

“An  order,  brought  by  one  of  the  aides-de-camp  of  the 
Emperor,  commanded  that  the  proceedings  should  not  be 
opened  that  morning  before  his  Majesty’s  arrival,  and 
already  the  court  had  remained  an  hour  inactive,  when 
Napoleon  entered  suddenly,  and  saluting  the  members  of 
the  tribunal  with  a courteous  bow,  took  his  place  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  As  he  passed  up  the  hall  he  threw  one 
glance  upon  the  bench  where  the  prisoners  sat;  it  was 
short  and  fleeting,  but  there  was  one  there  who  felt  it  in 
his  inmost  soul,  and  who  in  that  rapid  look  read  his  own 
fate  forever. 

“‘General  Aubuisson,’  said  the  President  of  the  court- 
martial,  ‘ you  were  on  duty  with  the  peloton  of  your  bat- 
talion on  the  evening  of  the  18th?  ’ 

“ A short  nod  of  the  head  was  the  only  reply.  ‘ It  is 
alleged,’  continued  the  President,  ‘ that  a little  after  nine 
o’clock  you  appeared  on  the  bridge  over  the  Elster,  and 
held  a conversation  with  Colonel  Montfort,  the  officer 
commanding  the  post;  the  court  now  desires  that  you 


1 The  vicomte’s  assertion  is  historically  correct. 


308 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


will  recapitulate  the  circumstances  of  that  conversation, 
as  well  as  inform  it  generally  on  the  reasons  of  your  pre- 
senting yourself  at  a post  so  remote  from  your  duty.’ 

“The  general  made  no  reply,  but  fixed  his  eyes  stead- 
fastly on  the  face  of  the  Emperor,  whose  cold  glance  met 
his  own,  impassive  and  unmoved. 

“‘  Have  you  heard  the  question  of  the  court?’  said  the 
President,  in  a louder  tone,  ‘ or  shall  I repeat  it?  ’ 

“ The  prisoner  turned  upon  him  a look  of  vacancy.  Like 
one  suddenly  awakened  from  a frightful  dream,  he  ap- 
peared struggling  to  remember  something  which  no  effort 
of  his  mind  could  accomplish.  He  passed  his  hand  across 
his  brow,  on  which  now  the  big  drops  of  sweat  were  stand- 
ing, and  then  there  broke  from  him  a sigh,  so  low  and 
plaintive  it  was  scarcely  audible. 

“ ‘ Collect  yourself,  General,  ’ said  the  President,  in  a 
milder  tone;  ‘we  wish  to  hear  from  your  own  lips  your 
account  of  this  transaction.’ 

“ Aubuisson  cast  his  eyes  downwards,  and  with  his  hands 
firmly  clasped,  seemed  to  reflect.  As  he  stood  thus,  his 
look  fell  upon  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  which  he  wore  on 
his  bosom;  with  a sudden  start  he  pressed  his  hand  upon 
it,  and  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  exclaimed, 
in  a wild  and  broken  voice,  — 

Silence!  — silence  a la  mort ! ’ 

“The  members  of  the  court-martial  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  in  amazement,  while  after  a pause  of  a few 
minutes  the  President  repeated  his  question,  dwelling 
patiently  on  each  word,  as  if  desirous  to  suit  the  troubled 
intellect  of  the  prisoner. 

“‘You  are  asked,’  said  he,  ‘to  remember  why  you  ap- 
peared at  the  bridge  of  the  Elster.  ’ 

“‘Hush!’  replied  the  prisoner,  placing  his  finger  upon 
his  lips,  as  if  to  instil  caution;  ‘ not  a word  ! ’ 

“‘  What  can  this  mean?’  said  the  President,  ‘ his  mind 
appears  completely  astray.’ 

“The  members  of  the  tribunal  leaned  their  heads  over 
the  table,  and  conversed  for  some  moments  in  a low  tone, 
after  which  the  President  resumed  the  interrogatory  as 
before. 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  LEIPSIC. 


309 


“‘Que  voulez-vous?  ’ said  the  Emperor,  rising,  while  a 
crimson  spot  on  his  cheek  evinced  his  displeasure;  ‘ Que 
voulez-vous,  Messieurs!  do  you  not  see  the  man  is 
mad?’ 

‘‘‘Silence!’  reiterated  Aubuisson,  in  the  same  solemn 
voice;  ‘ silence  a la  mort ! ’ 

“ There  could  no  longer  be  any  doubt  upon  the  question. 
From  whatever  cause  proceeding,  his  intellect  was  shaken, 
and  his  reason  gone.  Some  predominant  impression,  some 
all-powerful  idea,  had  usurped  the  seat  of  both  judgment 
and  memory,  and  he  was  a maniac. 

“In  ten  days  after,  General  Aubuisson  — the  distin- 
guished soldier  of  the  Republic,  the  brave  of  Egypt,  and 
the  hero  of  many  a battle  in  Germany,  Poland,  and  Russia 
— was  a patient  of  Charenton.  A sad  and  melancholy 
figure,  wasted  and  withered  like  a tree  reft  by  lightning, 
the  wreck  of  his  former  self,  he  walked  slowly  to  and  fro; 
and  though  at  times  his  reason  would  seem  to  return  free 
and  unclouded,  suddenly  a dark  curtain  would  appear  to 
drop  over  the  light  of  his  intellect,  and  he  would  mutter 
the  words,  ‘Silence!  silence  a la  mort!’  and  speak  not 
again  for  several  hours  after.” 

The  Vicomte  de  Berlemont,  from  whom  I heard  this 
sad  story,  was  himself  a member  of  the  court-martial  on 
the  occasion.  For  the  rest,  I visited  Paris  about  a fort- 
night after  I heard  it,  and  determining  to  solve  my  doubts 
on  a subject  of  such  interest  I paid  an  early  visit  to  Char- 
enton. On  examining  the  registry  of  the  institution,  I 
found  the  name  of  “Gustave  Guillaume  Aubuisson,  native 
of  Dijon,  aged  thirty-two.  Admitted  at  Charenton  the 
31st  of  October,  1813.  Incurable.”  And  on  another  page 
was  the  single  line,  “Aubuisson  escaped  from  Charenton, 
June  13,  1815.  Supposed  to  have  been  seen  at  Waterloo 
on  the  18th.” 

One  more  era  remains  to  be  mentioned  in  this  sad  story. 
The  old  tower  still  stands,  bleak  and  desolate,  on  the  moun- 
tains of  the  Vesdre;  but  it  is  now  uninhabited  save  by  the 
sheep  that  seek  shelter  within  its  gloomy  walls,  and  herd 
in  that  spacious  chimney.  There  is  another  change,  too, 


310 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


but  so  slight  as  scarcely  to  be  noticed:  a little  mound  of 
earth,  grass-grown  and  covered  with  thistles,  marks  the 
spot  where  “ Lazare  the  shepherd”  takes  his  last  rest. 
It  is  a lone  and  dreary  spot,  and  the  sighing  night-winds 
as  they  move  over  the  barren  heath  seem  to  utter  his 
last  consigne,  and  his  requiem,  — “ Silence ! silence  a la 
mort ! ” 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE  TOP  OF  A DILIGENCE. 

“Summa  diligentia,”  as  we  used  to  translate  it  at  school, 
'‘on  the  top  of  the  diligence,”  I wagged  along  towards  the 
Rhine.  A weary  and  a lonely  way  it  is;  indeed,  I half 
believe  a frontier  is  ever  thus,  — a kind  of  natural  barrier 
to  ambition  on  either  side,  where  both  parties  stop  short 
and  say,  “Well,  there ’s  no  temptation  there,  anyhow  ! ” 

Reader,  hast  ever  travelled  in  the  banquette  of  a dili- 
gence? I will  not  ask  you,  fair  lady;  for  how  could  you 
ever  mount  to  that  Olympus  of  trunks,  carpet-bags,  and 
hat -boxes;  but  my  whiskered  friend  with  the  cheroot  yon- 
der, what  says  he?  Never  look  angry,  man, — there  was 
no  offence  in  my  question;  better  men  than  either  of  us 
have  done  it,  and  no  bad  place  either. 

First,  if  the  weather  be  fine,  the  view  is  a glorious 
thing;  you  are  not  limited,  like  your  friends  in  the  coxipe, 
to  the  sight  of  the  conductor’s  gaiters,  or  the  leather  disc 
of  the  postilion’s  “continuations.”  No;  your  eye  ranges 
away  at  either  side  over  those  undulating  plains  which  the 
Continent  presents,  unbroken  by  fence  or  hedge-row,  — one 
stretch  of  vast  corn-fields,  great  waving  woods,  intermina- 
ble tracts  of  yellowish  pasture-land,  with  here  and  there  a 
village  spire,  or  the  pointed  roof  of  some  chateau  rising 
above  the  trees.  A yellow-earthy  by-road  traverses  the 
plain,  on  which  a heavy  wagon  plods  along,  the  eight  huge 
horses,  stepping  as  free  as  though  no  weight  restrained 
them;  their  bells  are  tinkling  in  the  clear  air,  and  the 
merry  chant  of  the  wagoner  chimes  in  pleasantly  with 
them.  It  is  somewhat  hard  to  fancy  how  the  land  is  ever 
tilled;  you  meet  few  villages;  scarcely  a house  is  in  sight, 
— yet  there  are  the  fragrant  fields;  the  yellow  gold  of 
harvest  tints  the  earth,  and  the  industry  of  man  is  seen 
on  every  side.  It  is  peaceful,  it  is  grand,  too,  from  its 


312 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


very  extent;  but  it  is  not  homelike.  No;  our  own  happy 
land  alone  possesses  that  attribute.  It  is  the  country  of 
the  hearth  and  home.  The  traveller  in  France  or  Germany 
catches  no  glances  as  he  goes  of  the  rural  life  of  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  soil.  A pale  white  chateau,  seemingly 
uninhabited,  stands  in  some  formal  lawn,  where  the  hot 
sun  darts  down  his  rays  unbroken,  and  the  very  fountain 
seems  to  hiss  with  heat.  No  signs  of  life  are  seen  about; 
all  is  still  and  calm,  as  though  the  moon  were  shedding  her 
yellow  lustre  over  the  scene.  Oh  how  I long  for  the  merry 
school-boy’s  laugh,  the  clatter  of  the  pony’s  canter,  the 
watch-dog’s  bark,  the  squire  breathing  the  morning  air 
amid  his  woods,  that  tell  of  England ! How  I fancy  a 
peep  into  that  large  drawing-room,  whose  windows  open 
to  the  greensward,  letting  in  a view  of  distant  mountains 
and  far-receding  foreground,  through  an  atmosphere  heavy 
with  the  rose  and  the  honeysuckle  ! Lovely  as  is  the  scene, 
with  foliage  tinted  in  every  hue,  from  the  light  sprayey 
hazel  to  the  dull  pine  or  the  dark  copper  beech,  — how  I 
prefer  to  look  within  where  they  are  met  who  call  this 
“home  ! ” And  what  a paradise  is  such  a home  ! — But  I 
must  think  no  more  of  these  things.  I am  a lone  and  soli- 
tary man ; my  happiness  is  cast  in  a different  path,  nor 
shall  I mar  it  by  longings  which  never  can  be  realized. 

While  I sat  thus  musing,  my  companion  of  the  banquette , 
of  whom  I had  hitherto  seen  nothing  but  a blue-cloth  cloak 
and  a travelling-cap,  came  “slap  down  ” on  me  with  a snort 
that  choked  him,  and  aroused  me. 

“I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  he  in  a voice  that  betrayed 
Middlesex  most  culpably.  “ Je  suis  — that  is,  j’ai  — ” 

“Never  mind,  sir;  English  will  answer  every  purpose,” 
cried  I.  “You  have  had  a sound  sleep  of  it.” 

“Yes,  Heaven  be  praised  ! I get  over  a journey  as  well 
as  most  men.  Where  are  we  now,  — do  you  happen  to 
know?  ” 

“That  old  castle  yonder,  I suspect,  is  the  Alten  Burg,” 
said  I,  taking  out  my  guide-book  and  directory.  “The 
Alten  Burg  was  built  in  the  year  1384,  by  Carl  Ludwig 
Graf  von  Lowenstein,  and  is  not  without  its  historic 
associations  — ” 


THE  TOP  OF  A DILIGENCE. 


313 


“Damn  its  historic  associations,”  said  my  companion, 
with  an  energy  that  made  me  start.  “1  wish  the  Devil  and 
his  imps  had  carried  away  all  such  trumpery,  or  kept  them 
to  torture  people  in  their  own  hot  climate,  and  left  us  free 
here.  I ask  pardon,  sir ! I beseech  you  to  forgive  my 
warmth;  you  would  if  you  knew  the  cause,  1 ’m  certain.” 

I began  to  suspect  as  much  myself,  and  that  my 
neighbor,  being  insane,  was  in  no  wise  responsible  for 
his  opinions;  when  he  resumed, — 

“Most  men  are  made  miserable  by  present  calamities; 
some  feel  apprehensions  for  the  future;  but  no  one  ever 
suffered  so  much  from  either  as  I do  from  the  past.  No, 
sir,”  continued  he,  raising  his  voice,  “I  have  been  made 
unhappy  from  those  sweet  souvenirs  of  departed  greatness 
which  guide-book  people  and  tourists  gloat  over.  The 
very  thought  of  antiquity  makes  me  shudder;  the  name  of 
Charlemagne  gives  me  the  lumbago;  and  I’d  run  a mile 
from  a conversation  about  Charles  the  Bold  or  Philip  van 
Artevelde.  I see  what ’s  passing  in  your  mind;  but  you ’re 
all  wrong.  I’m  not  deranged,  not  a bit  of  it;  though, 
faith,  I might  be,  without  any  shame  or  disgrace.” 

The  caprices  of  men,  of  Englishmen  in  particular,  had 
long  ceased  to  surprise  me;  each  day  disclosed  some  new 
eccentricity  or  other.  In  the  very  last  hotel  I had  left 
there  was  a member  of  Parliament  planning  a new  route  to 
the  Rhine,  avoiding  Cologne,  because  in  the  coffee-room 
of  the  Grossen  Rheinberg  there  was  a double  door  that 
everybody  banged  when  he  went  in  or  out,  and  so  discom- 
posed the  honorable  and  learned  gentleman  that  he  was 
laid  up  for  three  weeks  with  a fit  of  gout,  brought  on  by 
pure  passion  at  the  inconvenience. 

I had  not  long  to  wait  for  the  explanation  in  this  case. 
My  companion  appeared  to  think  he  owed  it  to  himself  to 
“ show  cause  ” why  he  was  not  to  be  accounted  a lunatic ; 
and  after  giving  me  briefly  to  understand  that  bis  means 
enabled  him  to  retire  from  active  pursuits  and  enjoy  his 
ease,  he  went  on  to  recount  that  he  had  come  abroad  to 
pass  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  peace  and  tranquillity. 
But  I shall  let  him  tell  his  own  story  in  his  own  words. 


314 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ On  the  eighth  clay  after  my  arrival  at  Brussels,  I told 
my  wife  to  pack  up;  for  as  Mr.  Thysens  the  lawyer,  who 
promised  to  write  before  that  time,  had  not  done  so,  we 
had  nothing  to  wait  for.  We  had  seen  Waterloo,  visited 
the  Musee,  skated  about  in  listed  slippers  through  the 
Palais  d’ Orange,  dined  at  Dubos’s,  ate  ice  at  Velloni’s, 
bought  half  the  old  lace  in  the  Rue  de  la  Madelaine,  and 
almost  caught  an  ague  in  the  Allee  Verte.  This  was  cer- 
tainly pleasure  enough  for  one  week ; so  I ordered  my  bill, 
and  prepared  ‘ to  evacuate  Flanders.’  Lord  help  us,  what 
beings  we  are ! Had  I gone  down  to  the  railroad  by  the 
Boulevards  and  not  by  the  Montague  de  la  Cour,  what 
miseries  might  I not  have  been  spared!  Mr.  Thysens’s 
clerk  met  me,  just  as  I emerged  from  the  Place  Royale, 
with  a letter  in  his  hand.  I took  it,  opened,  and  read : — 

Sir, — I have  just  completed  the  purchase  of  the  beautiful  Chateau 
of  Vanderstradentendonk,  with  all  its  gardens,  orchards,  pheasantries, 
piscinae,  prairies,  and  forest  rights,  which  are  now  your  property. 
Accept  my  most  respectful  congratulations  upon  your  acquisition  of 
this  magnificent  seat  of  ancient  grandeur,  rendered  doubly  precious 
by  its  having  been  once  the  favorite  residence  and  chateau  of  the 
great  Vandyck. 

“Here  followed  a long  encomium  upon  Rubens  and  his 
school,  which  I did  not  half  relish,  knowing  it  was  charged 
to  me  in  my  account;  the  whole  winding  up  with  a press- 
ing recommendation  to  hasten  down  at  once  to  take  pos- 
session, and  enjoy  the  partridge  shooting,  then  in  great 
abundance. 

“My  wife  was  in  ecstasy  to  be  the  Frow  Vanderstraden- 
tendonk, with  a fish-pond  before  the  door,  and  twelve  gods 
and  goddesses  in  lead  around  it.  To  have  a brace  of 
asthmatic  peacocks  on  a terrace,  and  a dropsical  swan  on 
an  island,  were  strong  fascinations, — not  to  speak  of  the 
straight  avenues  leading  nowhere,  and  the  winds  of  heaven 
blowing  everywhere;  a house  with  a hundred  and  thirty 
windows  and  half  as  many  doors,  none  of  which  would 
shut  close;  a garden,  with  no  fruit  but  crab-apples;  and 
a nursery,  so  called,  because  the  play-ground  of  all  the 
brats  for  a league  round  us.  No  matter,  I had  resolved  to 


TIIE  TOP  OF  A DUHGENCE. 


315 


live  abroad  for  a year  or  two,  and  one  place  would  do  just 
as  well  as  another;  at  least,  I should  have  quietness, — 
that  was  something;  there  was  no  neighborhood,  no  town, 
no  high-road,  no  excuse  for  travelling  acquaintances  to 
drop  in,  or  rambling  tourists  to  bore  one  with  letters  of 
introduction.  Thank  God ! there  was  neither  a battle- 
field, a cathedral,  a picture,  nor  a great  living  poet  for  ten 
miles  on  every  side. 

“Here,  thought  I,  I shall  have  that  peace  Piccadilly 
cannot  give.  Cincinnatus-like,  I ’ll  plant  my  cabbages, 
feed  my  turkeys,  let  my  beard  grow,  and  nurse  my  rental. 
Solitude  never  bored  me;  I could  bear  anything  but  intru- 
sive impertinence.  So  far  did  I carry  this  feeling,  that  on 
reading  Robinson  Crusoe  I laid  down  the  volume  in  disgust 
on  the  introduction  of  his  man  Friday ! 

“It  mattered  little,  therefore,  that  the  couleurde  rose  pic- 
ture the  lawyer  had  drawn  of  the  chateau  had  little  existence 
out  of  his  own  florid  imagination ; the  quaint  old  building, 
with  its  worn  tapestries  and  faded  furniture,  suited  the  habit 
of  my  soul,  and  I hugged  myself  often  in  the  pleasant  reflec- 
tion that  my  London  acquaintances  would  be  puzzling  their 
brains  for  my  whereabouts,  without  the  slightest  clew  to 
my  detection.  Now,  had  I settled  in  Florence,  Frankfort, 
or  Geneva,  what  a life  I must  have  led ! There  is  always 
some  dear  Mrs.  Somebody  going  to  live  in  your  neighbor- 
hood, who  begs  you  ’ll  look  out  for  a house  for  her,  — 
something  very  eligible;  eighteen  rooms  well  furnished;  a 
southern  aspect;  in  the  best  quarter;  a garden  indispensa- 
ble; and  all  for  some  forty  pounds  a year,  — or  some  other 
dear  friend  who  desires  you  ’ll  find  a governess,  with  more 
accomplishments  than  Malibran  and  more  learning  than 
Porson,  with  the  temper  of  five  angels,  and  a ‘ vow  in 
heaven  ’ to  have  no  higher  salary  than  a college  bed- 
maker.  Then  there  are  the  Thompsons  passing  through, 
whom  you  have  taken  care  never  to  know  before  ; but  who 
fall  upon  you  now  as  strangers  in  a foreign  land,  and  take  the 
‘ benefit  ’ of  the  ‘Alien  Act  ’ in  dinners  at  your  house  dur- 
ing their  stay.  I stop  not  to  enumerate  the  crying  wants 
of  the  more  lately  arrived  resident,  all  of  which  are  re- 
freshed for  your  benefit;  the  recommendations  to  butlers 


316 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


who  don’t  cheat,  to  moral  music-masters,  grave  dancing- 
masters,  and  doctors  who  never  take  fees,  — every  infrac- 
tion by  each  of  these  individuals  in  his  peculiar  calling 
being  set  down  as  a just  cause  of  complaint  against  your- 
self, requiring  an  animated  correspondence  in  writing,  and 
concluding  with  an  abject  apology  and  a promise  to  cut  the 
delinquent  that  day,  though  you  owe  him  a half-year’s 
Pill  j — these  are  all  pleasant ; not  to  speak  of  the  curse  of 
disjointed  society,  ill-assorted,  ill-conceived,  unreasonable 
pretension,  vulgar  impertinence,  and  fawning  toadyism  on 
every  side,  and  not  one  man  to  be  found  to  join  you  in 
laughing  at  the  whole  thing,  which  would  amply  repay 
one  for  any  endurance.  No,  thought  I,  I’ve  had  enough 
of  this  ! I ’ll  try  my  bark  in  quieter  waters,  and  though  it ’s 
only  a punt,  yet  I’ll  hold  the  sculls  myself,  and  that’s 
something. 

“ So  much  for  the  self-gratulation  I indulged  in,  as  the 
old  chaise  cle  poste  rattled  over  the  heavy  pavement,  and 
drew  up  short  at  the  portico  of  my  future  dwelling.  My 
wife  was  charmed  with  the  procession  of  villagers  who 
awaited  us  on  the  steps,  and  although  an  uglier  population 
never  trod  their  mother  earth  in  wooden  slippers,  fancied 
she  could  detect  several  faces  of  great  beauty  and  much 
interest  in  the  crowd.  Tor  my  part,  I saw  nothing  but  an 
indiscriminate  haze  of  cotton  nightcaps,  striped  jackets, 
blouses,  black  petticoats  and  sabots ; so,  pushing  my  way 
through  them,  I left  the  bazoon  and  the  burgomaster  to 
the  united  delights  of  their  music  and  eloquence,  and 
shutting  the  hall  door  threw  myself  on  a seat,  and  thanked 
Heaven  that  my  period  of  peace  and  tranquillity  was  at 
length  to  begin. 

“Peace  and  tranquillity!  What  airy  visions!  Had  I 
selected  the  post  of  cad  to  an  omnibus,  a steward  to  a 
Greenwich  steamer,  were  I a guide  to  the  Monument  or 
a waiter  at  Long’s,  my  life  had  been  one  of  dignified  repose 
in  comparison  with  my  present  existence. 

“ I had  not  been  a week  in  the  chateau  when  a travelling 
Englishman  sprained  his  ankle  within  a short  distance  of 
the  house.  As  a matter  of  course  he  was  brought  there, 
and  taken  every  care  of  for  the  few  days  of  his  stay.  He 


THE  TOP  OF  A DILIGENCE. 


317 


was  fed,  housed,  leeched,  and  stuped,  and  when  at  length 
he  proceeded  upon  his  journey  was  profuse  in  his  acknowl- 
edgments for  the  services  rendered  him;  and  yet  what  was 
the  base  return  of  the  ungrateful  man?  I have  scarcely 
temper  to  record  it.  During  the  very  moment  when  wre 
were  most  lavish  in  our  attention  to  him,  he  was  sapping 
the  very  peace  of  his  benefactors.  He  learned  from  the 
Flemish  servants  of  the  house  that  it  had  formerly  been 
the  favorite  residence  of  Vandyck;  that  the  very  furniture 
was  unchanged  since  his  time;  the  bed,  the  table,  the 
chair  he  had  sat  on  were  all  preserved.  The  wretch  — am 
I not  warranted  in  calling  him  so?  — made  notes  of  all 
this;  and  before  I had  been  three  weeks  in  my  abode,  out 
came  a ‘ Walk  in  Flanders,’  in  t^o  volumes,  with  a whole 
chapter  about  me,  headed  ‘ Chateau  de  Vandyck.’  There 
we  were,  myself  and  my  wife,  in  every  window  of  the 
Row:  Longman,  Hurst,  Rees,  Orme,  Brown,  Green,  and 
Blue,  had  bought  us  at  a price,  and  paid  for  us ; there  we 
were, — we,  who  courted  solitude  and  retirement, — to  be 
read  of  by  every  puppy  in  the  West  End,  and  every  appren- 
tice in  Cheapside.  Our  hospitality  was  lauded,  as  if  I kept 
open  house  for  all  comers,  with  ‘hot  chops  and  brown  gravy  ’ 
at  a moment’s  notice.  The  antiquary  was  bribed  to  visit 
me  by  the  fascinations  of  a spot  ‘ sacred  to  the  reveries  of 
genius;  ’ the  sportsman,  by  the  account  of  my  ‘ preserves;  ’ 
the  idler,  to  say  he  had  been  there;  and  the  guide-book- 
maker  and  historical  biographer,  to  vamp  up  details  for  a 
new  edition  of  ‘ Belgium  as  it  was,’  or  1 Vandyck  and  his 
Contemporaries.  ’ 

“From  the  hour  of  the  publication  of  that  horrid  book 
I never  enjoyed  a moment’s  peace  or  ease.  The  whole  tide 
of  my  travelling  countrymen  — and  what  a flood  it  is!  — 
came  pouring  into  Ghent.  Post-horses  could  not  be  found 
sufficient  for  half  the  demand;  the  hotels  were  crowded; 
respectable  peasants  gave  up  their  daily  employ  to  become 
guides  to  the  chateau;  and  little  busts  of  Vandyck  were 
hawked  about  the  neighborhood  by  children  of  four  years 
old.  The  great  cathedral  of  Ghent,  Van  Scamp’s  pictures, 
all  the  historic  remains  of  that  ancient  city  were  at  a 
discount;  and  they  who  formerly  exhibited  them  as  a live- 


318 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


lihood  were  now  thrown  out  of  breach  Like  the  dancing- 
master,  who  has  not  gone  up  to  Paris  for  the  last  pirouette 
or  the  physician  who  has  not  taken  up  the  stethoscope, 
they  were  reputed  old-fashioned  and  passe ; and  if  they 
could  not  describe  the  Chateau  de  Vandyck,  were  voted 
among  the  by-gones. 

“The  impulse  once  given,  there  was  no  stopping;  the 
current  was  irresistible.  The  double  lock  on  the  gate  of 
the  avenue,  the  bulldog  at  the  hall  door,  the  closed  shut- 
ters, the  cut-away  bell-rope,  announced  a firm  resolution 
in  the  fortress  not  to  surrender;  but  we  were  taken  by 
assault,  escaladed,  and  starved  out  in  turns. 

“Scarcely  was  the  tea-urn  on  the  breakfast-table  when 
they  began  to  pour  in,  — old  and  young,  the  halt,  the  one- 
eyed,  the  fat,  the  thin,  the  melancholy,  the  merry,  the 
dissipated,  the  dyspeptic,  the  sentimental,  the  jocose,  the 
blunt,  the  ceremonious,  the  courtly,  the  rude,  the  critical, 
and  the  free  and  easy.  One  came  forty  miles  out  of  his 
way,  and  pronounced  the  whole  thing  an  imposition,  and 
myself  a humbug;  another  insisted  upon  my  getting  up  at 
dinner,  that  he  might  sit  down  in  my  chair,  characterized 
by  the  confounded  guides  as  ‘ le  fauteuil  de  Vandyck;  ’ a 
third  went  so  far  as  to  propose  lying  down  in  our  great 
four-post  bed,  just  to  say  he  had  been  there,  though  my 
wife  was  then  in  it.  I speak  not  of  the  miserable  prac- 
tice of  cutting  slices  off  all  the  furniture  as  relics.  John 
Murray  took  an  inventory  of  the  whole  contents  of  the 
house  for  a new  edition  of  his  Guide-book;  and  Holman, 
the  blind  traveller,  felt  me  all  over  with  his  hand  as  I sat 
at  tea  with  my  wife;  and  last  of  all,  a respectable  cheese- 
monger from  the  Strand,  after  inspecting  the  entire  build- 
ing from  the  attics  to  the  cellar,  pressed  sixpence  into  my 
hand  at  parting,  and  said,  ‘ Happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Van- 
dyck, if  you  come  into  the  city  ! ’ 

“Then  the  advice  and  counsel  I met  with,  oral  and 
written,  would  fill  a volume,  and  did;  for  I was  compelled 
to  keep  an  album  in  the  hall  for  the  writers’  names.  One 
suggested  that  my  desecration  of  the  temple  of  genius 
would  be  less  disgusting  if  I dined  in  my  kitchen,  and 
left  the  ancient  dining-room  as  the  great  artist  had  left  it. 


TIIE  TOP  OF  A DILIGENCE. 


319 


Another  hinted  that  my  presence  in  my  own  house  de- 
stroyed all  the  illusion  of  its  historic  associations.  A 
third,  a young  lady,  — to  judge  by  the  writing, — pro- 
posed my  wearing  a point-beard  and  lace  ruffles,  with 
trunk  hose  and  a feather  in  my  hat,  probably  to  favor 
the  1 illusion  ’ so  urgently  mentioned  by  the  last  writer, 
and,  perhaps,  to  indulge  visitors  like  my  friend  the  cheese- 
monger. Many  pitied  me  — well  might  they!  — as  one 
insensible  to  the  associations  of  the  spot;  while  my  very 
servants,  regarding  me  only  as  a show  part  of  the  estab- 
lishment, neglected  their  duties  on  every  side,  and  betook 
themselves  to  ciceroneship,  each  allocating  his  peculiar 
territory  to  himself,  like  the  people  who  show  the  lions 
and  the  armor  in  the  Tower. 

“No  weather  was  either  too  hot  or  too  cold,  too  sultry 
or  too  boisterous ; no  hour  too  late  or  too  early,  no  day  was 
sacred.  If  the  family  were  at  prayers  or  at  dinner  or  at 
breakfast  or  in  bed,  it  mattered  not;  they  had  come  many 
miles  to  see  the  chateau,  and  see  it  they  would.  ‘Alas ! ’ 
thought  I,  ‘ if,  as  some  learned  persons  suppose,  indi- 
viduals be  recognizable  in  the  next  world,  what  a melan- 
choly time  of  it  will  be  yours,  poor  Vandyck  ! If  they 
make  all  this  hubbub  about  the  house  you  lived  in,  what 
will  they  do  about  your  fleshy  tabernacle?  ’ 

“As  the  season  advanced,  the  crowds  increased;  and  as 
autumn  began,  the  conflicting  currents  to  and  from  the 
Rhine  all  met  in  my  bedroom.  There  took  place  all  the 
rendezvous  of  Europe.  Runaway  daughters  there  first 
repented  in  papa’s  arms,  and  profligate  sons  promised 
amendment  for  the  future.  Myself  and  my  wife  were 
passed  by  unnoticed  and  disregarded  amid  this  tumult  of 
recognition  and  salutation.  We  were  emaciated  like  skele- 
tons; our  meals  we  ate  when  we  could,  like  soldiers  on  a 
retreat;  and  we  slept  in  our  clothes,  not  knowing  at  what 
moment  the  enemy  might  be  upon  us.  Locks,  bolts,  and 
bars  were  ineffectual;  our  resistance  only  increased  curi- 
osity, and  our  garrison  was  ever  open  to  bribery. 

“It  was  to  no  purpose  that  I broke  the  windows  to  let 
in  the  north  wind  and  acute  rheumatism;  to  little  good  did 
I try  an  alarm  of  fire  every  day  about  two,  when  the  house 


320 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


was  fullest;  and  I failed  signally  in  terrifying  my  tor- 
turers when  I painted  the  gardener’s  wife  sky-blue,  and 
had  her  placed  in  the  hall,  with  a large  label  over  the  bed, 

‘ collapsed  cholera.  ’ Bless  your  heart ! the  tourist  cares 
for  none  of  these;  and  I often  think  it  would  have  saved 
English  powder  and  shot  to  have  exported  half  a dozen  of 
them  to  the  East  for  the  siege  of  Seringapatam.  Had  they 
been  only  told  of  an  old  picture,  a tea-pot,  a hearth-brush, 
or  a candlestick  that  once  belonged  to  Godfrey  de  Bouillon 
or  Peter  the  Hermit,  they  would  have  stormed  it  under  all 
the  fire  of  Egypt!  Well,  it’s  all  over  at  last;  human 
patience  could  endure  no  longer.  We  escaped  by  night, 
got  away  by  stealth  to  Ghent,  took  post-horses  in  a feigned 
name,  and  fled  from  the  Chateau  de  Yandyck  as  from  the 
plague.  Determined  no  longer  to  trust  to  chances,  I have 
built  a cottage  myself,  which  has  no  historic  associations 
further  back  than  six  weeks  ago;  and  fearful  even  of  being 
known  as  the  ci-devant  possessor  of  the  chateau,  I never 
confess  to  have  been  in  Ghent  in  my  life;  and  if  Vandyck 
be  mentioned,  I ask  if  he  is  not  the  postmaster  at 
Tervueren. 

“Here,  then,  I conclude  my  miseries.  I cannot  tell 
what  may  be  the  pleasure  that  awaits  the  live  1 lion,’  but 
I envy  no  man  the  delights  that  fall  to  his  lot  who  inhabits 
the  den  of  the  dead  one.” 


CHAPTER  XX. 


BONN  AND  STUDENT  LIFE. 

When  I look  at  the  heading  of  this  chapter,  and  read 
there  the  name  of  a little  town  upon  the  Rhine,  — which, 
doubtless,  there  is  not  one  of  my  readers  has  not  visited, 
— and  reflect  on  how  worn  the  track,  how  beaten  the  path 
I have  been  guiding  them  on  so  long,  I really  begin  to  feel 
somewhat  faint-hearted.  Have  we  not  all  seen  Brussels 
and  Antwerp,  Waterloo  and  Quatre  Bras?  Are  we  not 
acquainted  with  Belgium,  as  well  as  we  are  with  Middle- 
sex; don’t  we  know  the  whole  country,  from  its  cathedrals 
down  to  Sergeant  Cotton?  — and  what  do  we  want  with 
Mr.  O’Leary  here?  And  the  Rhine  — bless  the  dear 
man ! — have  we  not  steamed  it  up  and  down  in  every 
dampschiffe  of  the  rival  companies?  The  Drachenfels 
and  St.  Goar,  the  Caub  and  Bingen,  are  familiar  to  our 
eyes  as  Chelsea  and  Tilbury  Fort.  True,  all  true,  mes- 
dames  and  messieurs,  — I have  been  your  fellow-traveller 
myself.  I have  watched  you  pattering  along,  John  Murray 
in  hand,  through  every  narrow  street  and  ill-paved  square, 
conversing  with  your  commissionnaire  in  such  French  as  it 
pleased  God,  and  receiving  his  replies  in  equivalent  Eng- 
lish. I have  seen  you  at  table  d'hote , vainly  in  search  of 
what  you  deemed  eatable,  — hungry  and  thirsty  in  the 
midst  of  plenty;  I have  beheld  you  yawning  at  the  opera, 
and  grave  at  the  Vaudeville;  and  I knew  you  were  making 
your  summer  excursion  of  pleasure,  “doiug  your  Belgium 
and  Germany,”  like  men  who  would  not  be  behind  their 
neighbors.  And  still,  with  all  this  fatigue  of  sea  and  land, 
this  rough-riding  and  railroading,  this  penance  of  short 
bed  and  shorter  board,  though  you  studied  your  handbook 
from  the  Scheldt  to  Schaffhausen,  you  came  back  with  little 
more  knowledge  of  the  Continent  than  when  you  left  home. 
It  is  true,  your  son  Thomas,  — that  lamb-like  scion  of  your 

21 


322 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


stock,  with  light  eyes  and  hair, — has  been  initiated  into 
the  mysteries  of  rouge  et  noir  and  roulette  ; madame,  your 
wife,  has  obtained  a more  extravagant  sense  of  what  is 
becoming  in  costume;  your  daughter  has  had  her  mind 
opened  to  the  fascinations  of  a French  escroc  or  a “refugee 
Pole;”  and  you,  yourself,  somewhat  the  worse  for  your 
change  of  habits,  have  found  the  salads  of  Germany  im- 
parting a tinge  of  acidity  to  your  disposition.  These  are, 
doubtless,  valuable  imports  to  bring  back,  — not  the  less 
so,  that  they  are  duty  free.  Yet,  after  all,  “joy’s  recol- 
lection is  no  longer  joy;  ” and  I doubt  if  the  retrospect  of 
your  wanderings  be  a repayment  for  their  fatigues. 

“Would  he  have  us  stay  at  home,  Pa?”  lisps  out,  in 
pouting  accents  of  impatience,  some  fair  damsel,  whose 
ringlets  alone  would  make  a furor  at  Paris. 

“Nothing  of  the  kind,  my  dear.  Travel  by  all  means. 
There ’s  nothing  will  improve  your  French  accent  like  a 
winter  abroad;  and  as  to  your  carriage  and  air,  it  is  all- 
essential you  should  be  pressed  in  the  waltz  by  some 
dark-mustached  Hungarian  or  tight-laced  Austrian.  Your 
German  will  fall  all  the  more  trippingly  off  your  tongue 
that  you  have  studied  it  in  the  land  of  beer  and  beetroot; 
while,  as  a safeguard  against  those  distressing  sensations 
of  which  shame  and  modesty  are  the  parents,  the  air  of 
the  Rhine  is  sovereign,  and  its  watering-places  an  unerr- 
ing remedy.  All  I bargain  for  is,  to  be  of  the  party.  Let 
there  be  a corner  in  a portmanteau,  or  an  imperial,  a car- 
riage-pocket, or  a courier’s  sack  for  me,  and  I ’m  content. 
If  ‘John’  be  your  guide,  let  Arthur  be  your  mentor. 
He’ll  tell  you  of  the  roads;  I,  of  the  travellers.  To  him 
belong  pictures  and  statues,  churches,  chateaus,  and  curi- 
osities ; mg  province  is  the  people,  — the  living  actors  of  the 
scene,  the  characters  who  walk  the  stage  in  prominent 
parts,  and  without  some  knowledge  of  whom  your  ram- 
ble would  lose  its  interest.  Occasionally,  it  is  true,  they 
may  not  be  the  best  of  company.  Que  voulez-vous?  ‘ If 
ever  you  travel,  you  mustn’t  feel  queer,’  as  Mathews  said 
or  sung,  — I forget  which.  I shall  only  do  my  endeavor  to 
deal  more  with  faults  than  vices,  more  with  foibles  than 
failings.  The  eccentricities  of  my  fellow-men  are  more  my 


BONN  AND  STUDENT  LIFE. 


323 


game  than  their  crimes;  and  therefore  do  not  fear  that  in 
my  company  I shall  teach  you  bad  habits,  nor  introduce 
you  to  low  acquaintances ; and  above  all,  no  disparagement, 
— and  it  is  with  that  thought  I set  out,  — no  disparagement 
of  me  that  I take  you  over  a much-travelled  track.  If  it 
be  so,  there  ’s  the  more  reason  you  should  know  the  com- 
pany whom  you  are  in  the  habit  of  visiting  frequently; 
and  secondly,  if  you  accompany  me  here,  I promise  you 
better  hereafter;  and  lastly,  one  of  the  pleasantest  books 
that  ever  was  written  was  the  ‘Voyage  autour  de  ma 
Chambre.’  Come,  then,  is  it  agreed, — are  we  fellow- 
travellers?  You  might  do  worse  than  take  me.  I ’ll 
neither  eat  you  up,  like  your  English  footmen,  nor  sell 
you  to  the  landlord,  like  your  German  courier,  nor  give 
you  over  to  brigands,  like  your  Italian  valet.  It’s  a bar- 
gain, then;  and  here  we  are  at  Bonn.” 

It  is  one  o’clock,  and  you  can’t  do  better  than  sit  down 
to  the  table  d’hote : call  it  breakfast,  if  your  prejudices  run 
high,  and  take  your  place.  I have  supposed  you  at  Die 
Sterne,  The  Star,  in  the  little  square  of  the  town;  and, 
certes,  you  might  be  less  comfortably  housed.  The  cuisitie 
is  excellent,  both  French  and  German,  and  the  wines  deli- 
cious. The  company  at  first  blush  might  induce  you  to 
step  back,  under  the  impression  that  you  had  mistaken 
the  salon , and  accidentally  fallen  upon  a military  mess. 
They  are  nearly  all  officers  of  the  cavalry  regiments  gar- 
risoned at  Bonn,  well-looking  and  well-dressed  fellows, 
stout,  bronzed,  and  soldier-like,  and  wearing  their  mus- 
taches like  men  who  felt  hair  on  the  upper  lip  to  be  a 
birthright.  If  a little  too  noisy  and  uproarious  at  table, 
it  proceeds  not  from  any  quarrelsome  spirit:  the  fault, 
in  a great  measure,  lies  with  the  language.  German, 
except  spoken  by  a Saxon  Madchen,  invariably  suggests  the 
idea  of  a row  to  an  uninterested  bystander;  and  if  Goethe 
himself  were  to  recite  his  ballads  before  an  English  audi- 
ence, I ’d  venture  long  odds  they ’d  accuse  him  of  blas- 
phemy. Welsh  and  Irish  are  soft  zephyrs  compared  to  it. 

A stray  Herr  baron  or  two,  large,  portly,  responsible- 
looking  men,  with  cordons  at  their  button-holes,  and  pipe- 
sticks  projecting  from  their  breast-pockets,  and  a sprinkling 


324 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


of  students  of  the  higher  class,  — it  is  too  dear  for  the 
others,  — make  up  the  party.  Of  course,  there  are  Eng- 
lish; but  my  present  business  is  not  with  them. 

By  the  time  you  have  arrived  at  the  “ Rae-braten,  with 
capers,”  — which  on  a fair  average,  taken  in  the  months 
of  spring  and  summer,  may  be  after  about  an  hour  and  a 
half’s  diligent  performance, — you’ll  have  more  time  to 
survey  the  party,  who  by  this  time  are  clinking  their 
glasses,  and  drinking  hospitably  to  one  another  in  cham- 
pagne; for  there  is  always  some  newly  returned  comrade 
to  be  feted,  or  a colonel’s  birthday  or  a battle,  a poet  or 
some  sentimentalism  about  the  Rhine  or  the  Fatherland, 
to  be  celebrated.  Happy,  joyous  spirits,  removed  equally 
from  the  contemplation  of  vast  wealth,  or  ignominious 
poverty ! The  equality  so  much  talked  of  in  France  is 
really  felt  in  Germany;  and  however  the  exclusives  of 
Berlin  and  Vienna,  or  the  still  more  exalted  coteries 
of  Baden  or  Darmstadt,  rave  of  the  fourteen  quarterings 
which  gives  the  entree  to  their  salons , the  nation  has  no 
sympathy  with  these  follies.  The  unaffected,  simple- 
minded,  primitive  German  has  no  thought  of  assuming 
an  air  of  distance  to  one  his  inferior  in  rank;  and  I have 
myself  seen  a sovereign  prince  take  his  place  at  table 
d'hote  beside  the  landlord,  and  hobnob  with  him  cor- 
dially during  dinner. 

I do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  German  has  no  respect 
for  rank;  on  the  contrary,  none  more  than  he  looks  up  to 
aristocracy,  and  reveres  its  privileges ; but  he  does  so  from 
its  association  with  the  greatness  of  his  Fatherland.  The 
great  names  of  his  nobles  recall  those  of  the  heroes  and 
sages  of  whom  the  traditions  of  the  country  bear  record; 
they  are  the  watchwords  of  German  liberty  or  German 
glory;  they  are  the  monuments  of  which  he  feels  proudest. 
His  reverence  for  their  descendants  is  not  tinged  with  any 
vulgar  desire  to  be  thought  their  equal  or  their  associate; 
far  from  it,  he  has  no  such  yearnings;  his  own  position 
could  never  be  affected  by  anything  in  theirs.  The  skipper 
of  the  fishing-craft  might  join  convoy  with  the  great  fleet, 
but  he  knows  that  lie  only  commands  a shallop  after  all. 

This,  be  it  remarked,  is  a very  different  feeling  from 


BONN  AND  STUDENT  LIFE. 


325 


what  we  occasionally  see  nearer  home.  I have  seen  a good 
deal  of  student-life  in  Germany,  and  never  witnessed  any- 
thing approaching  that  process  so  significantly  termed 
“tuft-hunting”  with  us.  Perhaps  it  may  be  alleged  in 
answer  that  rank  and  riches,  so  generally  allied  in  this 
country,  are  not  so  there;  and  that  consequently  much  of 
what  the  world  deems  the  prestige  of  condition  is  wanting 
to  create  that  respect.  Doubtless  this  is,  to  a certain 
extent,  true;  but  1 have  seen  the  descendants  of  the  most 
distinguished  houses  in  Germany  mixing  with  the  stu- 
dents of  a very  humble  walk  on  terms  the  most  agreeable 
and  familiar,  assuming  nothing  themselves,  and  certainly 
receiving  no  marks  of  peculiar  favor  or  deference  from 
their  companions.  When  one  knows  something  of  Ger- 
man character,  this  does  not  surprise  one.  As  a people, 
highly  imaginative  and  poetic  in  temperament,  dreamy 
and  contemplative,  falling  back  rather  on  the  past  than 
facing  the  future,  they  are  infinitely  more  assailable  by 
souvenirs  than  promises;  and  in  this  wise  the  ancient 
fame  of  a Hohenstauffen  has  a far  firmer  hold  on  the 
attachment  of  a Prussian  than  the  hopes  he  may  conceive 
from  his  successor.  It  was  by  recalling  to  the  German 
youth  the  once  glories  of  the  Fatherland,  that  the  beau- 
tiful queen  of  that  country  revived  the  drooping  spirit  of 
the  nation.  It  was  over  the  tomb  of  the  Great  Frederick 
that  the  monarch  swore  to  his  alliance  with  Alexander 
against  the  invading  legions  of  France.  The  songs  of 
Uhland  and  Goethe,  the  lyrics  of  Burgher  and  Korner, 
have  their  source  and  spirit  in  the  heartfelt  patriotism  of 
the  people.  The  great  features  of  the  land,  and  the  more 
striking  traits  of  national  character  are  inextricably  woven 
in  their  writings,  as  if  allied  to  each  other;  and  the  Rhine 
and  the  male  energy  of  German  blood,  their  native  moun- 
tains and  their  native  virtues,  are  made  to  reciprocate  with 
one  another;  and  thus  the  eternal  landmarks  of  Germany 
are  consecrated  as  the  altars  of  its  faithfulness  and  its 
truth. 

The  students  are  a means  of  perpetuating  these  notions. 
The  young  German  is  essentially  romantic.  A poet  and  a 
patriot,  his  dreams  are  of  the  greatness  of  his  Fatherland, 


326 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


of  its  high  mission  among  the  nations  of  Europe;  and  how- 
ever he  may  exaggerate  the  claims  of  his  country  or  over- 
rate his  own  efforts  in  her  cause,  his  devotion  is  a noble 
one;  and  when  sobered  down  by  experience  and  years,  it 
gives  to  Germany  that  race  of  faithful  and  high-souled 
people,  the  best  guardians  of  her  liberty  and  the  most 
attached  defenders  of  her  soil. 

A great  deal  of  mauvaise  plaisanterie  has  been  expended 
by  French  and  English  authors  on  the  subject  of  the  Ger- 
man student.  The  theme  was  perhaps  an  inviting  one. 
Certainly  nothing  was  easier  than  to  ridicule  absurdities 
in  their  manner  and  extravagancies  in  their  costume,  — 
their  long  pipes  and  their  long  beards,  their  long  skirts 
and  long  boots  and  long  sabres,  their  love  of  beer  and  their 
law-code  of  honor.  Russell,  in  his  little  work  on  Germany, 
— in  many  respects  the  only  English  book  worth  reading 
on  that  country,  — has  been  most  unjustly  severe  upon 
them.  As  to  French  authors,  one  never  expects  truth 
from  them,  except  it  slip  out  unconsciously  in  a work  of 
fiction.  Still,  they  have  displayed  a more  than  common 
spirit  of  detraction  when  speaking  of  the  German  student. 
The  truth  is,  they  cannot  forget  the  part  these  same  youths 
performed  in  repelling  the  French  invasion  of  their  coun- 
try. The  spirit  evoked  by  Korner,  and  responded  to  from 
the  Hartz  to  the  Black  Forest,  was  the  death-note  to  the 
dominant  tyranny  of  France.  The  patriotism  which  in 
the  Basque  provinces  called  into  existence  the  wild  Guer- 
illas, and  in  the  Tyrol  created  the  Jager-bund,  in  more 
cultivated  Germany  elicited  that  race  of  poets  and  warriors 
whose  war-songs  aroused  the  nation  from  its  sleep  of 
slavery,  and  called  them  to  avenge  the  injuries  of  their 
nation. 

Laugh,  then,  if  you  will,  at  the  strange  figures  whose 
uncouth  costumes  of  cap  and  jack-boot  bespeak  them  a 
hybrid  between  a civilian  and  a soldier.  The  exterior  is, 
after  all,  no  bad  type  of  what  lies  within;  its  contradic- 
tions are  indeed  scarcely  as  great.  The  spectacles  and 
mustaches,  the  note-book  beneath  the  arm  and  the  sabre 
at  the  side,  the  ink-bottle  at  the  buttonhole  and  the  spurs 
jingling  at  the  heels,  are  all  the  outward  signs  of  that 


BONN  AND  STUDENT  LIFE. 


327 


extraordinary  mixture  of  patient  industry  and  hot-headed 
enthusiasm,  of  deep  thought  and  impetuous  rashness,  of 
matter-of-fact  shrewdness  and  poetic  fervor,  and,  lastly, 
of  the  most  forgiving  temper  allied  to  an  unconquerable 
propensity  for  duelling.  Laugh  if  you  will  at  him,  but  he 
is  a fine  fellow  for  all  that;  and  despite  all  the  contra- 
rieties of  his  nature  he  has  the  seed  of  those  virtues  which 
in  the  peaceful  life  of  his  native  country  grow  up  into  the 
ripe  fruits  of  manly  truth  and  honesty. 

I wish  you  then  to  think  well  of  the  Bursche,  and  for- 
give the  eccentricities  into  which  a college  life  and  a most 
absurd  doctrine  of  its  ordinances  will  now  and  then  lead 
him.  That  wild-looking  youth,  for  all  that  he  has  a sabre- 
wound  across  his  cheek,  and  wears  his  neck  bare  like  a 
Malay,  despite  his  savage  mustache  and  his  lowering  look, 
has  a soft  heart,  though  it  beats  behind  that  mass  of  non- 
sensical braiding.  He  could  recite  you  for  hours  long  the 
ballads  of  Schiller  and  the  lyrics  of  Uhland;  ah!  and  sing 
for  you,  too,  with  no  mean  skill,  the  music  of  Spohr  and 
Weber,  accompanying  himself  the  while  on  the  piano, 
with  a touch  that  would  make  your  heart  thrill.  And  I 
am  not  sure  that  even  in  his  wildest  moments  of  enthusi- 
astic folly  he  is  not  nearly  as  much  an  object  of  hope  to 
his  country,  as  though  he  were  making  a book  on  the 
Derby,  or  studying  “the  odds”  among  the  legs  at 
Tattersall’s. 

Above  all  things,  I would  beg  of  you  not  to  be  too 
hasty  in  judging  him.  Put  not  much  trust  in  half  what 
English  writers  lay  to  his  charge;  believe  not  one  syllable 
of  any  Frenchman  on  the  subject,  — no,  not  even  that  esti- 
mable Alexandre  Dumas,  who  represents  the  “ Student  ” as 
demanding  alms  on  the  high-road,  — thus  confounding  him 
with  the  Lehr-Junker  (the  travelling  apprentice),  who  by 
the  laws  of  Germany  is  obliged  to  spend  two  years  in  wan- 
dering through  different  countries  before  he  is  permitted 
to  reside  permanently  in  his  own.  The  blunder  would 
have  been  too  gross  for  anything  but  a Frenchman  and  a 
Parisian;  but  the  Rue  St.  Denis  covers  a multitude  of  mis- 
takes, and  the  Boulevard  de  Montmartre  is  a dispensation 
to  all  truth.  Howitt,  if  you  can  read  a heavy  book,  will 


328 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


tell  you  nearly  everything  a book  can  tell;  but  setting  a 
Quaker  to  describe  Burschen  life,  was  pretty  much  like 
sending  a Hindu  to  report  at  a county  meeting. 

Now,  all  this  time  we  have  been  wandering  from  Bonn 
and  its  gardens,  sloping  down  into  the  very  Rhine,  and  its 
beautiful  park,  the  once  pleasure-ground  of  that  palace 
which  now  forms  the  building  of  the  University.  There 
are  few  sweeter  spots  than  this.  You  have  escaped  from 
the  long,  low  swamps  of  Holland,  you  have  left  behind 
you  the  land  of  marsh  and  fog,  and  already  the  mountain- 
ous region  of  Germany  breaks  on  the  view;  the  Sieben 
Gebirge  are  in  sight,  and  the  bold  Drachenfels,  with  its 
ruined  tower  on  its  summit,  is  an  earnest  of  the  glorious  scen- 
ery to  come.  The  river  itself  looks  brighter  and  fresher; 
its  eddies  seem  to  sparkle  with  a lustre  they  know  not  when 
circling  along  the  swampy  shores  of  Nimmegen. 

Besides,  there  is  really  something  in  a name,  and  the 
sound  of  Deutschland  is  pleasanter  than  that  of  the  coun- 
try of  “dull  fogs  and  dank  ditches;  ” and  although  I would 
not  have  you  salute  it,  like  Voltaire,  — 

“Adieu,  canaille,  — canards,  canaux  ! ” 

still,  be  thankful  for  being  where  you  are,  take  your 
coffee,  and  let  us  have  a ramble  through  the  Park. 

Alas!  the  autumn  is  running  into  the  winter;  each 
breeze  that  sighs  along  the  ground  is  the  dirge  over  the 
dead  leaves  that  lie  strewn  around  us.  The  bare  branches 
throw  their  gaunt  arms  to  and  fro  as  the  cold  gray  clouds 
flit  past;  the  student,  too,  has  donned  his  fur-lined  mantle, 
and  strides  along,  with  cap  bent  down,  and  hurried  step. 
But  a few  weeks  since,  and  these  alleys  were  crowded  with 
gay  and  smiling  groups,  lingering  beneath  the  shadow  of 
tall  trees,  and  listening  to  the  Jager  band  that  played  in 
yonder  pavilion.  The  gray-haired  professor  moved  slowly 
along,  uncovering  his  venerable  head  as  some  student 
passed,  and  respectfully  saluting  him;  and  there  too 
walked  his  fair  daughters,  the  “frauleins  with  the  yellow 
hair.”  How  calmly  sweet  their  full  blue  eyes!  how  gen- 
tleness is  written  in  their  quiet  gait!  Yet,  see!  as  each 


BONN  AND  STUDENT  LIFE. 


329 


bar  of  the  distant  waltz  is  beard  beating  on  the  ear,  how 
their  footsteps  keep  time  and  mark  the  measure!  Alas! 
the  summer  hours  have  fled,  and  with  them  those  calm 
nights  when  by  the  flickering  moon  the  pathways  echoed 
to  the  steps  of  lingering  feet  now  homeward  turning. 

I never  can  visit  a University  town  in  Germany  without 
a sigh  after  the  time  when  I was  myself  a Bursche,  read 
myself  to  sleep  each  night  with  Ludwig  Tieck,  and  sported 
two  broadswords  crosswise  above  my  chimney. 

I was  a student  at  Gottingen,  the  Georgia  Augusta;  and 
in  the  days  I speak  of — I know  not  well  what  King  Ernest 
has  done  since  — it  was  rather  a proud  thing  to  be  “ein 
Gottinger  Bursche.”  There  was  considered  something 
of  style  to  appertain  to  it  above  the  other  Universities; 
and  we  looked  down  upon  a lleidelberger  or  a Halle  man 
as  only  something  above  a “Philister.  ” The  professors  had 
given  a great  celebrity  to  the  University  too.  There  was 
Stromeyer  in  chemistry,  and  Hausman  in  philology ; Behr 
in  Greek,  Shrader  in  botany;  and,  greater  than  all,  old 
Blumenbach  himself,  lecturing  four  days  each  week  on 
everything  he  could  think  of,  — natural  philosophy, 
physics,  geography,  anatomy,  physiology,  optics,  colors, 
metallurgy,  magnetism,  and  the  whale  fishery  in  the 
South  Seas,  — making  the  most  abstruse  and  grave  sub- 
jects interesting  by  the  charm  of  his  manner,  and  elevat- 
ing trivial  topics  into  consequence  by  their  connection 
with  weightier  matters.  He  was  the  only  lecturer  I ever 
heard  of  who  concluded  his  hour  to  the  regret  of  his  hearers, 
and  left  them  longing  for  the  continuation.  Anecdote  and 
illustration  fell  from  him  with  a profusion  almost  incon- 
ceivable and  perfectly  miraculous,  when  it  is  borne  in  mind 
that  he  rarely  was  known  to  repeat  himself  in  a figure,  and 
more  rarely  still  in  a story ; and  when  he  had  detected 
himself  in  this  latter  he  would  suddenly  stop  short,  with 
an  “ Ach  Gott,  I’m  growing  old,”  and  immediately  turn 
into  another  channel,  and  by  some  new  and  unheard-of 
history  extricate  himself  from  his  difficulty.  With  all  the 
learning  of  a Buffon  and  a Cuvier,  he  was  simple  and  un- 
affected as  a child.  His  little  receptions  in  the  summer 
months  were  held  in  his  garden.  I have  him  before  me 


330 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


this  minute,  seated  under  the  wide-spreading  linden  tree, 
with  his  little  table  before  him,  holding  his  coffee  and  a 
few  books, — his  long  hair,  white  as  snow,  escaping  be- 
neath his  round  cap  of  dark  green  velvet,  falling  loosely 
on  his  shoulders,  and  his  large  gray  eyes,  now  widely 
opened  with  astonishment  at  some  piece  of  intelligence  a 
boy  would  have  heard  without  amazement,  then  twinkling 
with  sly  humor  at  the  droll  thoughts  passing  through  his 
mind;  while  around  him  sat  his  brother  professors  and 
their  families,  chatting  pleasantly  over  the  little  news  of 
their  peaceful  community, — the  good  Yraus  knitting  and 
listening,  and  the  Frauleins  demurely  sitting  by,  wearing 
a look  of  mock  attention  to  some  learned  dissertation,  and 
ever  and  anon  stealing  a sly  glance  at  the  handsome  youth 
who  was  honored  by  an  invitation  to  the  soiree. 

How  charming,  too,  to  hear  them  speak  of  the  great  men 
of  the  land  as  their  old  friends  and  college  companions! 
It  was  not  the  author  of  “Wallenstein  ” and  “Don  Carlos,” 
but  Frederick  Schiller,  the  student  of  medicine,  as  they 
knew  him  in  his  boyhood,  — bold,  ardent,  and  ambitious ; 
toiling  along  a path  he  loved  not,  and  feeling  within  him 
the  working  of  that  great  genius  which  one  day  was  to 
make  him  the  pride  of  his  Fatherland;  and  Wieland, 
strange  and  eccentric,  old  in  his  youth,  with  the  inno- 
cence of  a child  and  the  wisdom  of  a sage;  and  Hoffman, 
the  victim  of  his  gloomy  imagination,  whose  spectral 
shapes  and  dark  warnings  were  not  the  forced  efforts  of 
his  brain,  but  the  companions  of  his  wanderings,  the 
beings  of  his  sleep.  How  did  they  jest  with  him  on  his 
half-crazed  notions,  and  laugh  at  his  eccentricities.  It 
was  strange  to  hear  them  tell  of  going  home  with  Hummel, 
then  a mere  bo}r,  and  how,  as  the  evening  closed  in,  he  sat 
down  to  the  piano-forte,  and  played  and  sang,  and  played 
again  for  hours  long,  now  exciting  their  wonder  by  pas- 
sages of  brilliant  and  glittering  effect,  now  knocking  at 
their  hearts  by  tones  of  plaintive  beauty.  There  was  a 
little  melody  he  played  the  night  they  spoke  of, — some 
short  and  touching  ballad,  the  inspiration  of  the  moment, 
— made  on  the  approaching  departure  of  some  one  amongst 
them,  which  many  years  after  in  “ Fidelio  ” called  down 


BONN  AND  STUDENT  LIFE. 


331 


thunders  of  applause;  mayhap  the  tribute  of  his  first  audi- 
ence was  a sweeter  homage  after  all. 

While  thus  they  chatted  on,  the  great  world  without 
and  all  its  mighty  interests  seemed  forgotten  by  them. 
France  might  have  taken  another  choleric  fit,  and  been  in 
march  upon  the  Rhine;  England  might  have  once  more 
covered  the  ocean  with  her  fleets,  and  scattered  to  the 
waves  the  wreck  of  another  Trafalgar;  Russia  might  be 
pouring  down  her  hordes  from  the  Don  and  Dnieper,  — 
little  chance  had  they  of  knowing  aught  of  these  things! 
The  orchards  that  surrounded  the  ramparts  shut  out  the 
rest  of  Europe,  and  they  lived  as  remote  from  all  the  colli- 
sions of  politics  and  the  strife  of  nations  as  though  the 
University  had  been  in  another  planet. 

I must  not  forget  the  old  Hofrath  Froriep,  Ordentliche- 
Professor  von  — Heaven  knows  what!  No  one  ever  saw 
his  collegium  (lecture-room);  no  one  ever  heard  him  lec- 
ture. He  had  been  a special  tutor  to  the  princes,  — as  the 
Dukes  of  Cumberland  and  Cambridge  were  then  called, 
about  forty  years  ago, — and  he  seemed  to  live  upon  the 
memory  of  those  great  days  when  a Royal  Highness  took 
notes  beside  his  chair,  and  when  he  addressed  his  class  as 
“Princes  and  Gentlemen!”  What  pride  he  felt  in  his 
clasp  of  the  Guelph,  and  an  autograph  letter  of  the  Herzog 
von  Clarence,  who  once  paid  him  a visit  at  his  house  in 
Gottingen!  It  was  a strange  thing  to  hear  the  royal  fam- 
ily of  England  spoken  thus  of  among  foreigners,  who 
neither  knew  our  land  nor  its  language.  One  was  sud- 
denly recalled  to  the  recollection  of  that  Saxon  stock  from 
which  our  common  ancestry  proceeded,  — the  bond  of  union 
between  us,  and  the  source  from  which  so  many  of  the  best 
traits  of  English  character  take  their  origin.  The  love  of 
truth,  the  manly  independence,  the  habits  of  patient  indus- 
try which  we  derived  from  our  German  blood  are  not  infe- 
rior to  the  enterprising  spirit  and  the  chivalrous  daring  of 
Norman  origin. 

But  to  return  to  the  Hofrath,  or  Privy  Councillor 
Froriep,  for  so  was  he  most  rigidly  styled.  I remember 
him  so  well  as  he  used  to  come  slowly  down  the  garden- 
walk,  leaning  on  his  sister’s  arm.  He  was  the  junior  by 


332 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


some  years,  but  no  one  could  have  made  the  discovery 
now;  the  thing  rested  on  tradition,  however,  and  was  not 
disputed.  The  Fraulein  Martha  von  Froriep  was  the 
daguerrotype  of  her  brother.  To  see  them  sitting  oppo- 
site each  other  was  actually  ludicrous;  not  only  were  the 
features  alike,  but  the  expressions  tallied  so  completely 
that  it  was  as  if  one  face  reflected  the  other.  Did  the  pro- 
fessor look  grave,  the  Fraulein  Martha’s  face  was  serious; 
did  he  laugh,  straightway  her  features  took  a merry  cast; 
if  his  coffee  was  too  hot,  or  did  he  burn  his  fingers  with 
his  pipe,  the  old  lady’s  sympathies  were  with  him  still. 
The  Siamese  twins  were  on  terms  of  distant  acquaintance- 
ship, compared  with  the  instinctive  relation  these  two  bore 
each  other. 

Flow  was  it  possible,  you  will  ask,  that  such  an  eternal 
similarity  should  have  marked  their  dispositions?  The 
answer  is  an  easy  one.  The  Fraulein  was  deaf,  perfectly* 
destitute  of  hearing.  The  last  recorded  act  of  her  auditory 
nerves  was  on  the  occasion  of  some  public  rejoicing,  when 
twenty-four  large  guns  were  discharged  in  a few  seconds 
of  time,  and  by  the  reverberation  broke  every  window  in 
Gottingen;  the  old  lady,  who  was  knitting  at  the  time, 
merely  stopped  her  work  and  called  out  “Come  in!  ” think- 
ing it  was  a tap  at  the  room-door.  To  her  malady,  then, 
was  it  owing  that  she  so  perfectly  resembled  the  professor 
her  brother.  She  watched  him  with  an  anxious  eye;  his 
face  was  the  dial  that  regulated  every  hour  of  her  exist- 
ence ; and  as  the  telegraph  repeats  the  signal  that  is  made 
to  it,  yet  knows  not  the  interpretation  of  the  sign,  so  did 
she  signalize  the  passing  emotions  of  his  mind  long  per- 
haps after  her  own  could  take  interest  in  the  cause. 

Nothing  had  a stranger  effect,  however,  than  to  listen 
to  the  professor’s  conversation,  to  which  the  assent  of  the 
deaf  old  lady  chimed  in  at  short  and  regular  intervals. 
For  years  long  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  corroborating 
everything  he  said,  and  continued  the  practice  now  from 
habit;  it  was  like  a clock  that  struck  the  hour  when  all  its 
machinery  had  run  down.  And  so,  whether  the  Hofrath 
descanted  on  some  learned  question  of  Greek  particles, 
some  much -disputed  fact  of  ancient  history,  or,  as  was 


BONN  AND  STUDENT  LIFE. 


333 


more  often  the  case,  narrated  with  German  broadness  some 
little  anecdote  of  his  student  life,  the  old  lady’s  “ Ja,  ja, 
den  sah  Ich,  selbst;  da  war  Ich,  aucli!”  (Yes,  yes,  I saw 
it  myself;  I was  there,  too!)  bore  testimony  to  the  truth 
of  Tacitus  or  Herodotus,  or,  more  precarious  still,  to  these 
little  traits  of  her  brother’s  youthful  existence,  which,  to 
say  the  least,  were  as  well  uncorroborated. 

The  Hofrath  had  passed  his  life  as  a bachelor, — a cir- 
cumstance which  could  not  fail  to  surprise,  for  his  stories 
were  generally  of  his  love  adventures  and  perils;  and  all 
teemed  with  dissertations  on  the  great  susceptibility  of 
his  heart,  and  his  devoted  admiration  of  female  beauty,  — 
weaknesses  of  which  it  was  plain  he  felt  vain,  and  loved 
to  hear  authenticated  by  his  old  associates.  In  this  respect 
Blumenbacli  indulged  him  perfectly,  — now  recalling  to  his 
memory  some  tender  scene,  or  some  afflicting  separation, 
which  invariably  drew  him  into  a story. 

If  these  little  reminiscences  possessed  not  all  the  point 
and  interest  of  more  adventurous  histories,  to  me  at  least 
they  were  more  amusing  by  the  force  of  truth,  and  by  the 
singular  look,  voice,  and  manner  of  him  who  related  them. 
Imagine,  then,  a meagre  old  man,  about  five  feet  two, 
whose  head  was  a wedge  with  the  thin  side  foremost,  the 
nose  standing  abruptly  out,  like  the  cut-water  of  a man-o’- 
war  gig;  a large  mouth,  forming  a bold  semicircle,  with 
the  convexity  downwards,  the  angles  of  which  were  lost  in 
a mass  of  wrinkles  on  his  withered  cheeks;  two  fierce- 
looking,  fiery,  little  gray  eyes  set  slantwise  in  his  head 
without  a vestige  of  eyelash  over  them;  his  hair  combed 
back  with  great  precision,  and  tied  behind  into  a queue, 
had  from  long  pulling  gradually  drawn  the  eyebrows  up- 
wards to  double  their  natural  height,  where  they  remained 
fixed,  giving  to  this  uncouth  face  an  expression  of  ever- 
lasting surprise,  — in  fact,  he  appeared  as  if  he  were  per- 
petually beholding  the  ghost  of  somebody.  His  voice  was 
a strange,  unnatural,  clattering  sound,  as  though  the 
machinery  of  speech  had  been  left  a long  while  without 
oiling,  and  could  not  work  flippantly ; but  to  be  sure,  the 
language  was  German,  and  that  may  excuse  much. 

Such  was  the  Herr  Hofrath  Froriep,  — once,  if  you  were 


334 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY 


to  believe  himself,  a lady-killer  of  the  first  water.  Indeed, 
still,  when  he  stretched  forth  his  thin  and  twisted  shanks 
attired  in  satin  shorts  and  black  silk  stockings,  a gleam  of 
conscious  pride  would  light  up  his  features,  and  he  would 
seem  to  say  to  himself,  “These  legs  might  do  some  mis- 
chief yet.”  Caroline  Pichler,  the  novelist,  had  been  one 
of  his  loves,  and,  if  you  believed  himself,  a victim  to  his 
fascinations.  However,  another  version  of  the  tale  had 
obtained  currency,  and  was  frequently  alluded  to  by  his 
companions  at  those  moments  when  a more  boastful  spirit 
than  they  deemed  suitable  animated  his  discourse;  and 
at  such  times  I remarked  that  the  Hofrath  became  unu- 
sually sensitive,  and  anxious  to  change  the  subject. 

It  was  one  evening,  when  we  sat  somewhat  later  than 
our  wont  in  the  garden,  tempted  by  the  delicious  fragrance 
of  the  flowers  and  the  mild  light  of  a new  moon,  that  at 
last  the  Hofrath ’s  Madchen  made  her  appearance,  lantern 
in  hand,  to  conduct  him  home.  She  carried  on  her  arm  a 
mass  of  cloaks,  shawls,  and  envelopes  that  would  have 
clothed  a procession,  with  which  she  proceeded  leisurely 
and  artistically  to  dress  up  the  professor  and  his  sister, 
until  the  impression  came  over  the  bystanders  that  none 
but  she  who  hid  them  in  that  mountain  of  wearables  would 
ever  be  able  to  discover  them  again. 

“ Ach  Gott,”  exclaimed  the  Hofrath,  as  she  crowned  him 
with  a quilted  nightcap,  whose  jaws  descended  and  fas- 
tened beneath  the  chin  like  an  antique  helmet,  leaving 
the  miserable  old  face,  like  an  uncouth  pattern,  in  the 
middle  of  the  Berlin  embroidery,  — “ Ach  Gott,  but  for 
that!  ” 

But  for  that!”  reiterated  old  Hausman,  in  a solemn 
tone,  as  if  he  knew  the  secret  grief  his  friend  alluded  to, 
and  gave  him  all  his  sympathy. 

Sit  down  again,  Froriep,”  said  Blumenbach;  “it  is  an 
hour  too  soon  for  young  folk  like  us  to  separate.  We  ’ll 
have  a glass  of  Rosenthaler,  and  you  shall  tell  us  that 
story.  ” 

Be  it  so,”  said  the  Hofrath,  as  he  made  signs  to  the 
Madchen  that  he  would  cast  his  skin.  “Ich  bin  dabey 
(I’m  ready).” 


BONN  A NO  STUDENT  LIFE. 


335 


“ Wi’  tippeuny  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi’  usquebaugh  we  ’il  face  the  devil,” 

quoth  Burns;  and  surely  Tain’s  knowledge  of  human 
nature  took  a wide  circuit  when  he  uttered  those  words. 
The  whole  philosophy  of  temptation  is  comprised  in  the 
distich,  and  the  adage  of  coming  up  “to  a man’s  price” 
has  no  happier  illustration;  and  certainly,  had  the  poet 
been  a Bursche  in  Germany,  he  could  not  have  conveyed 
the  “sliding-scale”  of  professors’  agreeability  under  a 
more  suitable  formula.  He  who  would  be  civil  with  a pipe 
becomes  communicative  with  coffee,  and  brotherly  with 
beer;  but  he  opens  every  secret  of  his  nature  under  the 
high-pressure  power  of  a flask  of  Rhenish.  The  very 
smack  of  the  Hofrath’s  lips  as  he  drained  his  glass  to 
the  bottom,  and  then  exclaimed  in  a transport,  “Er  ist 
zum  kissen,  derWein!”  announced  that  the  folding-doors 
of  his  heart  stood  wide  open,  and  that  he  might  enter  who 
would. 

“Rosenthaler  was  Goethe’s  favorite,”  quoth  Stromeyer; 
“and  he  had  a good  taste  in  wine.” 

“Your  great  folk,”  said  Hausman,  “ever  like  to  show 
some  decided  preference  to  one  vintage  above  the  rest; 
Napoleon  adopted  chambertin,  Joseph  the  Second  drank 
nothing  but  tokay,  and  Peter  the  Great  found  brandy  the 
only  fluid  to  his  palate.” 

“A  plague  on  their  fancies!”  interrupted  old  Blumen- 
bach.  “Let  us  have  the  story!  ” 

“Ah,  well,  well,”  said  the  Ilofrath,  throwing  up  his 
eyes  with  an  air  of  sentimentalism,  “so  you  shall. 

‘ Love’s  young  dream’  was  sweet,  after  all!  We  were  in 
the  Hartz,”  continued  he,  at  once  springing  into  his  story 
with  a true  Demosthenic  abruptness,  — “we  were  in  the 
Hartz  mountains,  making  a little  tour,  for  it  was  semestre, 
and  all  the  classes  were  closed  in  the  University.  There 
was  Tieck,  and  Feldtbourg  the  Dane,  and  Upsal,  and  old 
Langendorf  of  Jena,  and  Grotchen  von  Zobelschein,  and 
Mina  Upsal,  and  Caroline,  and  Martha  there, — she,  poor 
thing,  was  getting  deaf  at  the  time,  and  could  not  take 
the  same  pleasure  as  the  rest  of  us.  She  was  always  stupid, 
you  know.” 


336 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Here  he  looked  over  at  her,  when  she  immediate!}7, 
responded,  — 

“ Yes,  yes,  what  he  says  is  true.” 

“Each  morning  we  used  to  set  off  up  the  mountains, 
botanizing  and  hammering  among  the  limestone  rocks,  and 
seeking  for  cryptogamia  and  felspar,  lichens  and  junger- 
mannia  and  primitive  rock,  — mingling  our  little  diversions 
with  pleasant  talk  about  the  poets,  and  reciting  verses  to 
one  another  from  Hans  Sachs  and  the  old  writers,  and 
chatting  away  about  Schiller:  the  ‘ Lager’  was  just  come 
out,  and  more  than  one  among  us  could  scarcely  believe  it 
was  Frederick  did  it. 

“ Tieck  and  I soon  found  that  we  were  rivals ; for  before 
a week  each  of  us  was  in  love  with  Caroline.  Now,  Lud- 
wig was  a clever  fellow,  and  had  a thousand  little  ways  of 
ingratiating  himself  with  a pretty  woman,  — and  a poetess 
besides.  He  could  come  down  every  day  to  breakfast  with 
some  ode  or  sonnet,  or  maybe  a dream ; and  then  he  was 
ready  after  dinner  with  his  bit  of  poetry,  which  sometimes, 
when  he  found  a piano,  he ’d  set  to  music;  or  maybe  in  the 
evening  he ’d  invent  one  of  those  strange  rigmarole  stories 
of  his,  about  a blue-bottle  fly  dying  for  love  of  a white 
moth  or  some  superannuated  old  drone  bee,  retiring  from 
public  life,  and  spending  his  days  reviling  the  rest  of  the 
world.  You  know  his  nonsense  well;  but  somehow  one 
could  not  help  listening,  and,  what ’s  worse,  feeling  inter- 
est in  it.  As  for  Caroline,  she  became  crazed  about  gnats 
and  spiders  and  fleas,  and  would  hear  for  whole  days  long 
the  stories  of  their  loves  and  sorrows. 

“For  some  time  I bore  up  as  well  as  I could.  There 
was  a limit  — Heaven  be  thanked!  — to  that  branch  of  the 
creation;  and  as  he  had  now  got  down  to  millepedes,  I 
trusted  that  before  the  week  was  over  he ’d  have  reached 
mites,  beyond  which  it  was  impossible  he  could  be  ex- 
pected to  proceed.  Alas!  I little  knew  the  resources  of 
his  genius;  for  one  evening,  when  I thought  him  running 
fast  aground,  he  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  us,  and  began  a 
tale  of  the  life  and  adventures  of  the  Herr  Baron  von 
Beetroot,  in  search  of  his  lost  love  the  Fr&ulein  von 
Cucumber.  This  confounded  narrative  had  its  scene  in 


BONN  ANI)  STUDENT  LIFE. 


337 


an  old  garden  in  Silesia,  where  there  were  incidents  of 
real  beauty  and  interest  interwoven,  ay,  and  verses  that 
would  make  your  heart  thrill.  Caroline  could  evidently 
resist  no  longer.  The  Baron  von  Beetroot  was  ever  upper- 
most in  her  mind;  and  if  she  ate  gurkin-salade,  it  brought 
the  tears  into  her  eyes.  In  this  sad  strait  1 wandered  out 
alone  one  evening,  and  without  knowing  it  reached  the 
Rase  Mtihle,  near  Oltdorf.  There  I went  in  and  ordered 
a supper;  but  they  had  nothing  but  Thick-milk  and  Kalte- 
schade.1  No  matter,  thought  I,  — a man  in  such  grief  as 
mine  need  little  care  what  he  eats;  and  I ordered  both, 
that  I might  afterwards  decide  which  I ’d  prefer.  They 
came,  and  were  placed  before  me.  Himmel  und  Erde! 
what  did  I do  but  eat  the  two ! — beer  and  cream,  cream 
and  beer,  pepper  and  sugar,  brown  bread  and  nutmeg! 
Such  was  my  abstraction,  that  I never  noticed  what  I was 
doing  till  I saw  the  two  empty  bowls  before  me.  ‘ I am 
a dead  Hofrath  before  day  breaks,’  said  I,  ‘ and  I ’ll  make 
my  will;’  but  before  I could  put  the  plan  into  execution 
I became  very  ill,  and  they  were  obliged  to  carry  me  to 
bed.  From  that  moment  my  senses  began  to  wander;  ex- 
haustion, sour  beer,  and  despair  were  all  working  within 
me,  and  I was  mad.  It  was  a brief  paroxysm,  but  a fear- 
ful one.  A hundred  and  fifty  thousand  ridiculous  fancies 
went  at  racing  speed  through  my  mind,  and  I spent  the 
night  alternately  laughing  and  crying.  My  pipe,  that  lay 
on  the  chair  beside  the  bed,  figured  in  nearly  every  scene, 
and  performed  a part  in  many  a strange  adventure. 

“By  noon  the  others  learned  where  I was,  and  came 
over  to  see  me.  After  sitting  for  half  an  hour  beside  me 
they  were  going  away,  when  I called  Caroline  and  Martha 
back.  Caroline  blushed;  but,  taking  Martha’s  arm,  she 
seated  herself  upon  a sofa,  and  asked  in  a timid  voice 
what  I wished  for. 

‘“To  hear  me  before  I die,’  replied  I;  ‘to  listen  to  a 
wonderful  vision  I have  seen  this  night.’ 

“‘A  vision,’  said  Caroline;  ‘ oh,  what  was  it?’ 

1 Thick  milk,  — a mess  of  sour  cream  thickened  with  sugar  and  crumbs 
of  bread  ; Kaltc-schadc,  — the  same  species  of  abomination,  the  only 
difference  being  beer,  vice  cream,  for  the  fluid. 


338 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ ‘A  beautiful  and  a touching  one.  Let  me  tell  it  to  you. 
I will  call  it  “ The  never-to-be-lost-sight-of,  though  not-the- 
less-on-that-account-to-be-concealed,  Loves  of  the  Mug  and 
the  Meerschaum.”  ’ 

“Caroline  sprang  to  my  side  as  I uttered  these  words, 
and  as  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes  she  sobbed 
forth,  — 

“ ‘ Let  me  but  hear  it ! let  me  but  hear  it ! ’ 

“ ‘ Sit  down,  ’ said  I,  taking  her  hand  and  pressing  it  to 
my  lips,  — ‘sit  down,  and  you  shall.’  With  that  I began 
my  tale.  I suppose,”  continued  the  Hof  rath,  “you  don’t 
wish  to  have  the  story?” 

“Gott  bewahr  (Heaven  forbid)!”  broke  in  the  whole 
company  in  a breath.  “Leave  the  Mug  and  the  Meer- 
schaum, and  go  on  with  Caroline!  ” 

“Well,  from  that  hour  her  heart  was  mine.  Ludwig 
might  call  all  the  reptiles  that  ever  crawled,  every  vegeta- 
ble that  ever  grew,  to  his  aid,  — the  victory  was  with  me. 
He  saw  it,  and,  irritated  by  defeat,  returned  to  Berlin 
without  bidding  us  even  farewell;  and  we  never  heard  of 
him  till  we  saw  His  new  novel  of  ‘Fortunio.’  But  to  go 
on.  The  day  after  Tieck  left  us  was  my  birthday,  and 
they  all  arranged  to  give  me  a little  fete;  and  truly  nothing 
could  be  prettier.  The  garden  of  the  inn  was  a sweet  spot, 
and  there  was  a large  linden  like  this,  where  the  table  was 
spread;  and  there  was  a chair  all  decked  with  roses  and 
myrtle  for  me, — Caroline  herself  had  done  it;  and  they 
had  composed  a little  hymn  in  honor  of  me,  wherein  were 
sundry  compliments  to  my  distinction  in  science  and  poesy, 
the  gifts  of  my  mind  and  the  graces  of  my  person.  Ach, 
ja!  I was  handsome  then. 

“ Well,  well,  I must  close  my  tale, — I cannot  bear  to 
think  of  it  even  now.  Caroline  came  forward,  dressed  in 
white,  with  a crown  of  roses  and  laurel  leaves  intertwined, 
and  approached  me  gracefully,  as  I sat  waiting  to  receive 
her,  — all  the  rest  ranged  on  either  side  of  me. 

‘ Auf  seine  stirne,  wo  tier  licht  — ’ 

(Upon  that  brow  where  shines  the  light) 

said  Caroline,  raising  the  chaplet. 


BONN  AND  STUDENT  LIFE. 


339 


“‘Ach  Du  Heiliger!  ’ screamed  Martha,  who  only  that 
instant  saw  I was  bareheaded,  ‘ the  dear  man  will  catch  his 
death  of  cold!  ’ and  with  that  she  snatched  this  confounded 
nightcap  from  her  pocket,  and  rushing  forward  clapped  it 
on  my  head  before  I could  know  it  was  done.  I struggled 
and  kicked  like  one  possessed,  but  it  was  of  no  use;  she 
had  tied  the  strings  in  a black  knot,  and  they  could  neither 
be  loosened  nor  broken.  ‘ Be  still  there!  ’ said  she;  ‘ thou 
knowest  well  that  at  fifty-three  — ’ You  can  conceive,” 
said  the  Hofrath  in  a parenthesis,  “that  her  passion  oblit- 
erated her  memory.  At  fifty-three  one  can’t  play  the 
fool  like  at  twenty.” 

“Ach,  ja!  it  was  over  with  me  forever.  Caroline 
screamed  at  the  cap,  first  laughing,  then  crying,  and 
then  both;  the  rest  nearly  died  of  it,  and  so  did  I. 
Caroline  would  never  look  at  me  after,  and  1 came  back 
home,  disappointed  in  my  love,  — and  all  because  of  a 
woollen  nightcap.” 

When  the  Hofrath  concluded,  he  poured  the  remainder 
of  the  Rosentlialer  into  his  glass,  and  bowing  to  each  in 
turn,  wished  us  good-night,  while  taking  the  Fraulein 
Martha’s  arm  they  both  disappeared  in  the  shade,  as  the 
little  party  broke  up  and  each  wended  his  way  homeward. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


THE  STUDENT. 

If  I were  not  sketching  a real  personage,  and  retailing 
an  anecdote  once  heard,  I should  pronounce  the  Hofrath 
von  Floriep  a fictitious  character,  for  which  reason  I bear 
you  no  ill-will  if'  you  incline  to  that  opinion.  I have  no 
witness  to  call  in  my  defence.  There  were  but  two  Eng- 
lishmen in  Gottingen  in  my  day;  one  of  them  is  now  no 
more.  Poor  fellow!  he  had  just  entered  the  army;  his 
regiment  was  at  Corfu,  and  he  was  spending  the  six 
months  of  his  first  leave  in  Germany.  We  chanced  to  be 
fellow-travellers,  and  ended  by  becoming  friends.  When 
he  left  me,  it  was  for  Vienna,  from  which  after  a short 
stay  he  departed  for  Venice,  where  he  purchased  a yacht, 
and  with  eight  Greek  sailors  sailed  for  a cruise  through 
the  Ionian  Islands.  He  was  never  seen  alive  again;  his 
body,  fearfully  gashed  and  wounded,  was  discovered  on  the 
beach  at  Zante.  His  murderers,  for  such  they  were,  escaped 
with  the  vessel,  and  never  were  captured.  Should  any  Sixty- 
first  man  throw  his  eye  over  these  pages  he  will  remember 
that  I speak  of  one  beloved  by  every  one  who  knew 
him.  With  all  the  heroic  daring  of  the  stoutest  heart,  his 

nature  was  soft  and  gentle  as  a child’s.  Poor  G ! 

some  of  the  happiest  moments  of  my  life  were  spent  with 
you;  some  of  the  saddest,  in  thinking  over  your  destiny. 

You  must  take  my  word  for  the  Hofrath,  then,  good 
reader.  They  who  read  the  modern  novels  of  Germany  — 
the  wild  exaggerations  of  Eouque  and  Hoffman,  Museus 
and  Tieck  — will  comprehend  that  the  story  of  himself  has 
no  extravagance  whatever.  To  ascribe  language  and  human 
passions  to  the  lower  animals,  and  even  to  the  inanimate 
creation,  is  a favorite  German  notion,  the  indulgence  of 
which  has  led  to  a great  deal  of  that  mysticism  which  we 
find  in  their  writings;  and  the  secret  sympathies  of  cauli- 


THE  STUDENT. 


341 


flowers  and  cabbages  for  young  ladies  in  love  is  a constant 
theme  among  this  class  of  novelists. 

A word  now  of  the  students,  and  I have  done.  What- 
ever the  absurdities  in  their  code  of  honor, however  ludicrous 
the  etiquette  of  the  “comment”  as  it  is  called,  there  is  a 
world  of  manly  honesty  and  true-heartedness  among  them. 
There  is  nothing  mean  or  low,  nothing  dishonorable  or 
unworthy  in  the  spirit  of  the  Burschenschaft.  Exagger- 
ated ideas  of  their  own  importance,  an  overweening  sense 
of  their  value  to  the  Fatherland,  there  are  in  abundance, 
as  well  as  a mass  of  crude,  unsettled  notions  about  liberty 
and  the  regeneration  of  Germany.  But,  after  all,  these 
are  harmless  fictions;  they  are  not  allied  to  any  evil  pas- 
sions at  the  time,  they  lead  to  no  bad  results  for  the  future. 
The  murder  of  Kotzebue,  and  the  attempt  on  the  life  of 
Napoleon  by  Staps,  wrere  much  more  attributable  to  the 
mad  enthusiasm  of  the  period  than  to  the  principles  of 
the  Student-league.  The  spirit  of  the  nation  revolted  at 
the  tyranny  they  had  so  long  submitted  to,  and  these  fear- 
ful crimes  were  the  agonized  expression  of  endurance 
pushed  to  madness.  Only  they  who  witnessed  the  fran- 
tic joy  of  the  people  when  the  tide  of  fortune  turned 
against  Napoleon,  and  his  baffled  legions  retreated  through 
Germany  on  their  return  from  the  Russian  campaign,  can 
understand  how  deeply  stored  were  the  wrongs  for  which 
they  were  now  to  exact  vengeance.  The  volker  schlagltt 
(the  “people’s  slaughter”)  as  they  love  to  call  the  terrible 
fight  of  Leipsic,  was  the  dreadful  recompense  of  all  their 
sufferings. 

When  the  French  Revolution  first  broke  out,  the  German 
students,  like  many  wiser  and  more  thinking  heads  than 
theirs  in  our  own  country,  were  struck  with  the  great  move- 
ment of  a mighty  people  in  their  march  to  liberty;  but 
when,  disgusted  with  the  atrocities  that  followed,  they 
afterwards  beheld  France  the  first  to  assail  the  liberties 
and  trample  on  the  freedom  of  every  other  country,  they 
regarded  her  as  a traitor  to  the  cause  she  once  professed. 
And  while  their  apathy  in  the  early  wars  of  the  republican 
armies  marked  their  sympathy  with  the  wild  notions  of 
liberty  of  which  Frenchmen  affected  to  be  the  apostles  in 


342 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Europe,  yet  when  they  saw  the  lust  of  conquest  and  the 
passion  for  dominion  usurp  the  place  of  those  high- 
sounding  virtues, — Liberte , Egalite, — the  reverse  was  a 
tremendous  one,  and  may  well  excuse,  if  excuse  were 
needful,  the  proud  triumph  of  the  German  armies  when 
they  bivouacked  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 

The  changed  fortunes  of  the  Continent  have  of  course 
obliterated  every  political  feature  in  the  student  life  of 
Germany;  or  if  such  still  exist,  it  takes  the  form  merely 
of  momentary  enthusiasm  in  favor  of  some  banished  pro- 
fessor, or  a Burschen  festival  in  honor  of  some  martyr  of 
the  Press.  Still  their  ancient  virtues  survive,  and  the 
German  student  is  yet  a type  — one  of  the  few  remaining  — 
of  the  Europe  of  thirty  years  ago.  Long  may  he  remain 
so,  say  I;  long  may  so  interesting  a land  have  its  national 
good  faith  and  brotherly  affection  rooted  in  the  minds  of 
its  youth;  long  may  the  country  of  Schiller,  of  Wieland, 
and  of  Goethe  possess  the  race  of  those  who  can  appreciate 
their  greatness,  or  strive  to  emulate  their  fame! 

I leave  to  others  the  task  of  chronicling  their  beer 
orgies,  their  wild  festivals,  and  their  duels;  and  though 
not  disposed  to  defend  them  on  such  charges,  I might, 
were  it  not  invidious,  adduce  instances  nearer  home  of 
practices  little  more  commendable.  At  those  same  festi- 
vals, at  many  of  which  I have  been  present,  I have  heard 
music  that  would  shame  most  of  our  orchestras,  and  lis- 
tened to  singing  such  as  I have  never  heard  surpassed 
except  within  the  walls  of  a grand  opera.  And  as  to  their 
duelling,  the  practice  is  bad  enough  in  all  conscience;  but 
still  I would  mention  one  instance,  of  which  I myself  was 
a witness,  and  perhaps  even  in  so  little  fertile  a field  we 
may  find  one  grain  of  goodly  promise. 

Among  my  acquaintances  in  Gottingen  were  two  stu- 
dents, both  Prussians,  and  both  from  the  same  small  town 
of  Magdebourg.  They  had  been  school-fellows,  and  came 
together  to  the  University,  where  they  lived  together  on 
terms  of  brotherly  affection,  which  even  there,  where 
friendship  takes  all  the  semblance  of  a sacred  compact, 
was  the  subject  of  remark.  Never  were  two  men  less 
alike,  however,  than  these.  Eisendecker  was  a bold,  hot- 


TIIE  STUDENT. 


343 


headed  fellow,  fond  of  all  the  riotous  excesses  of  Burschen 
life;  his  face,  seamed  with  many  a scar,  declared  him 
a “hahn,”  as  in  student  phrase  a confirmed  duellist  is 
termed.  He  was  ever  foremost  in  each  scheme  of  wild 
adventure,  and  continually  being  brought  up  before  the 
senate  on  some  charge  of  insubordination.  Von  Mtiliry, 
his  companion,  was  exactly  the  opposite.  His  sobriquet  — 
for  nearly  every  student  had  one  — was  “der  Zahme  (the 
gentle),’’  and  never  was  any  more  appropriate.  His  dis- 
position was  mildness  itself.  He  was  very  handsome, 
almost  girlish  in  his  look,  with  large  blue  eyes  and  fine, 
soft  silky  hair,  which,  Germanlike,  lie  wore  upon  his  neck. 
His  voice  — the  index  of  liis  nature  — soft,  low,  and  musi- 
cal, would  have  predisposed  you  at  once  in  his  favor. 
Still,  those  disparities  did  not  prevent  the  attachment  of 
the  two  youths;  on  the  contrary,  they  seemed  rather  to 
strengthen  the  bond  between  them,  — each,  as  it  were, 
supplying  to  the  other  the  qualities  which  Nature  had 
denied  him.  They  were  never  separate  in  lecture-room, 
at  home,  or  in  the  allee  (as  the  promenade  was  called)  or 
in  the  garden,  where  each  evening  the  students  resorted 
to  sup,  and  listen  to  the  music  of  the  Jager  band.  Eisen- 
decker  and  Miihry  were  names  that  no  one  ever  heard  sep- 
arated, and  when  one  appeared  the  other  was  never  more 
than  a few  yards  off. 

Such  was  their  friendship,  when  an  unhappy  incident 
occurred  to  trouble  its  even  course,  and  sow  dissension 
between  these  who  never  had  known  a passing  difference 
in  their  lives.  The'  sub-rector  of  Gottingen  was  in  the 
habit  of  giving  little  receptions  every  week,  to  which 
many  of  the  students  were  invited,  and  to  which  Eisen- 
decker  and  Miihry  were  frequently  asked,  as  they  both 
belonged  to  the  professor’s  class.  In  the  quiet  world  of  a 
little  University  town,  these  soirees  were  great  occasions; 
and  the  invited  plumed  themselves  not  a little  on  the  dis- 
tinction of  a card  which  gave  the  privilege  of  bowing  in 
the  Herr  professor’s  drawing-room,  and  kissing  the  hand 
of  his  fair  daughter  the  Frederica  von  Ettenheim,  the  belle 
of  Gottingen.  Frederica  was  the  prettiest  German  girl  I 
ever  saw;  for  this  reason,  that  having  been  partly  educated 


344 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


at  Paris,  French  espieglerie  relieved  what  had  been  other- 
wise the  too  regular  monotony  of  her  Saxon  features,  and 
imparted  a character  of  sauciness  — or  fierte  is  a better 
word  — to  that  quietude  which  is  too  tame  to  give  the 
varied  expression  so  charming  in  female  beauty.  The 
esprit , that  delicious  ingredient  which  has  been  so  lament- 
ably omitted  in  German  character,  she  had  imbibed  from 
her  French  education;  and  in  lieu  of  that  plodding  inter- 
change of  flat  commonplaces  which  constitute  the  ordinary 
staple  of  conversation  between  the  young  of  opposite  sexes 
beyond  the  Rhine,  she  had  imported  the  light,  delicate 
tone  of  Parisian  raillery, — the  easy  and  familiar  gayety 
of  French  society,  so  inexpressibly  charming  in  France, 
and  such  a boon  from  Heaven  when  one  meets  it  by  acci- 
dent elsewhere. 

Oh,  confess  it  ye  who,  in  the  dull  round  of  this  world’s 
so-called  pleasure,  in  the  Erybcean  darkness  of  the  din- 
ners and  evening  parties  of  your  fashionable  friends,  sit 
nights  long,  speaking  and  answering,  half  at  random,  with- 
out one  thought  to  amuse,  without  one  idea  to  interest 
you,  — what  pleasure  have  you  felt  when  some  chance  ex- 
pression, some  remark,  — a mere  word,  perhaps,  — of  your 
neighbor  beside  you,  reveals  that  she  lias  attained  that 
wondrous  charm,  that  most  fascinating  of  all  posses- 
sions,— the  art  to  converse;  that  neither  fearful  of  being 
deemed  pedantic  on  the  one  hand,  or  uninformed  on  the 
other,  she  launches  forth  freely  on  the  topic  of  the  mo- 
ment; gracefully  illustrating  her  meaning  by  womanly 
touches  of  sensibility  and  delicacy,  as  though  to  say,  these 
lighter  weapons  were  her  own  peculiar  arms,  while  men 
might  wield  the  more  massive  ones  of  sense  and  judgment. 
Then  with  what  lightness  she  flits  along  from  theme  to 
theme,  half  affecting  to  infer  that  she  dares  not  venture 
deep,  yet  showing  every  instant  traits  of  thoughtfulness 
and  reflection ! 

How  long  since  have  you  forgotten  that  she  who  thus 
holds  you  entranced  is  the  brunette,  with  features  rather 
too  bold  than  otherwise ; that  those  eyes  which  now  sparkle 
with  the  fire  of  mind  seemed  but  half  an  hour  ago  to  have 
a look  of  cold  effrontery?  Such  is  the  charm  of  esprit; 


TIIE  STUDENT. 


345 


and  without  it  the  prettiest  woman  wants  her  greatest 
charm.  A.  diamond  she  may  be,  and  as  bright  and  of  purest 
water;  but  the  setting,  which  gives  such  lustre  to  the  stone, 
is  absent,  and  half  the  brilliancy  of  the  gem  is  lost  to  the 
beholder. 

Now,  of  all  tongues  ever  invented  by  man,  German  is 
the  most  difficult  and  clumsy  for  all  purposes  of  conversa- 
tion. You  may  preach  in  it,  you  may  pray  in  it,  you  may 
hold  a learned  argument,  or  you  may  lay  down  some 
involved  and  intricate  statement, — you  may,  if  you  have 
the  gift,  even  tell  a story  in  it,  provided  the  hearers  be 
patient,  and  some  have  gone  so  far  as  to  venture  on 
expressing  a humorous  idea  in  German;  but  these  have 
been  bold  men,  and  their  venturous  conduct  is  more  to  be 
admired  than  imitated.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  right  to 
add  that  a German  joke  is  a very  wooden  contrivance 
at  best,  and  that  the  praise  it  meets  with  is  rather  in  the 
proportion  of  the  difficulty  of  the  manufacture  than  of 
the  superiority  of  the  article, — just  as  we  admire  those 
Indian  toys  carved  with  a rusty  nail,  or  those  fourth-string 
performances  of  Paganini  and  his  followers. 

And  now  to  come  back  to  the  students,  whom  mayhap 
you  deem  to  have  been  forgotten  by  me  all  this  time,  but 
for  whose  peculiar  illustration  my  digression  was  intended, 
— it  being  neither  more  nor  less  than  to  show  that  if  Fred- 
erica von  Ettenheim  turned  half  the  heads  in  Gottingen, 
Messrs.  Eisendecker  and  Miihry  were  of  the  number. 
What  a feature  it  was  of  the  little  town,  her  coming  to 
reside  in  it!  What  a sweet  atmosphere  of  womanly  grace- 
fulness spread  itself  like  a perfume  through  those  old 
salons,  whose  dusty  curtains  and  moth-eaten  chairs  looked 
like  the  fossils  of  some  antediluvian  furniture!  With 
what  magic  were  the  old  ceremonials  of  a professor’s 
reception  exchanged  for  the  easier  habits  of  a politer 
world!  The  venerable  dignitaries  of  the  University  felt 
the  change,  but  knew  not  where  it  lay,  and  could  not 
account  for  the  pleasure  the}T  now  experienced  in  the  vice- 
rector’s soirees  ; while  the  students  knew  no  bounds  to  the 
enthusiastic  admiration,  and  “Die  Ettenheim”  reigned  in 
every  heart  in  Gottingen. 


346 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Of  all  her  admirers  none  seemed  to  hold  a higher  place 
in  her  favor  than  Von  Muhry.  Several  causes  contributed 
to  this,  in  addition  to  his  own  personal  advantages  and 
the  distinction  of  his  talents,  which  were  of  a high  order. 
He  was  particularly  noticed  by  the  vice-rector,  from  the 
circumstance  of  his  father  holding  a responsible  position 
in  the  Prussian  government;  while  Adolphe  himself  gave 
ample  promise  of  one  day  making  a figure  in  the  world. 
He  was  never  omitted  in  any  invitation,  nor  forgotten  in 
any  of  the  many  little  parties  so  frequent  among  the  pro- 
fessors; and  even  where  the  society  was  limited  to  the 
dignitaries  of  the  college,  some  excuse  would  ever  be 
made  by  the  vice-rector  to  have  him  present,  either  on 
the  pretence  of  wanting  him  for  something,  or  that  Fred- 
erica had  asked  him  without  thinking. 

Such  was  the  state  of  this  little  world  when  I settled  in 
it,  and  took  up  my  residence  at  the  Meissner  Thor,  intend- 
ing to  pass  my  summer  there.  The  first  evening  I spent 
at  the  vice-rector’s,  the  matter  was  quite  clear  to  my  eyes. 
Frederica  and  Adolphe  were  lovers.  It  was  to  no  pur- 
pose that  when  he  had  accompanied  her  on  the  piano  he 
retreated  to  a distant  part  of  the  room  when  she  ceased  to 
sing.  It  signified  not  that  he  scarcely  ever  spoke  to  her, 
and  when  he  did,  but  a few  words,  hurriedly  and  in  con- 
fusion. Their  looks  met  once;  I saw  them  exchange  one 
glance,  — a fleeting  one,  too,  — but  I read  in  it  their  whole 
secret,  mayhap  even  more  than  they  knew  themselves. 
Well  had  it  been,  if  I alone  had  witnessed  this,  but  there 
was  another  at  my  side  who  saw  it  also,  and  whispered  in 
my  ear,  “Der  Zahme  is  in  love.”  I turned  round,  — it  was 
Eisendecker:  his  face,  sallow  and  sickly,  while  large  cir- 
cles of  dark  olive  surrounded  his  eyes,  and  gave  him  an 
air  of  deep  suffering.  “Did  you  see  that?”  said  he,  sud- 
denly, as  he  leaned  his  hand  on  my  arm,  where  it  shook 
like  one  in  ague. 

“Did  you  see  that?  ” 

“What, — the  flower? 

“Yes,  the  flower.  It  was  she  dropped  it,  when  she 
crossed  the  room.  You  saw  him  take  it  up,  didn’t  you?  ” 
The  tone  he  spoke  in  was  harsh  and  hissing,  as  if  he  up 


THE  STUDENT. 


347 


tered  the  words  with  his  teeth  clenched.  Tt  was  clear  to 
me  now  that  he,  too,  was  in  love  with  Frederica,  and  I 
trembled  to  think  of  the  cruel  shock  their  friendship  must 
sustain  ere  long. 

A short  time  after,  when  I was  about  to  retire,  Eisen- 
decker  took  my  arm,  and  said,  “Are  you  for  going  home? 
May  I go  with  you?  ” I gave  a willing  assent,  our  lodg- 
ings being  near,  and  we  spent  much  of  every  day  in  each 
other’s  chambers.  It  was  the  first  time  we  had  ever  re- 
turned without  waiting  for  Miihry;  and  fearing  what  a 
separation,  once  begun,  might  lead  to,  I stopped  suddenly 
on  the  stairs,  and  said,  as  if  suddenly  remembering, — 

“By  the  by,  we  are  going  without  Adolphe.” 

Eisendecker’s  fingers  clutched  me  convulsively,  and  while 
a bitter  laugh  broke  from  him,  he  said,  “You  wouldn’t 
tear  them  asunder,  would  you?”  For  the  rest  of  the  way 
he  never  spoke  again,  and  I,  fearful  of  awakening  the  ex- 
pression of  that  grief  which,  when  avowed,  became  con- 
firmed, never  opened  my  lips,  save  to  say,  “Good-night.” 

I never  intended  to  have  involved  myself  in  a regular 
story  when  I began  this  chapter,  nor  must  I do  so  now, 
though,  sooth  to  say,  it  would  not  be  without  its  interest 
to  trace  the  career  of  these  two  youths,  who  now  became 
gradually  estranged  from  each  other,  and  were  no  longer 
to  be  seen,  as  of  old,  walking  with  arms  on  each  other’s 
shoulder,  — the  most  perfect  realization  of  true  brotherly 
affection.  Day  by  day  the  distance  widened  between 
them;  each  knew  the  secret  of  the  other’s  heart,  yet 
neither  dared  to  speak  of  it.  From  distrust  there  is  but 
a short  step  to  dislike  — alas ! it  is  scarcely  even  a step. 
They  parted. 

Every  one  knows  that  the  reaction  which  takes  place 
when  some  long-standing  friendship  has  been  ruptured  is 
proportionate  to  the  warmth  of  the  previous  attachment. 
Still  the  cause  of  this,  in  a great  measure,  is  more  attribu- 
table to  the  world  about  us  than  to  ourselves ; we  make 
partisans  to  console  us  for  the  loss  of  one  who  was  our  con- 
fidant, and  in  the  violence  of  their  passions  we  are  carried 
away  as  in  a current.  The  students  were  no  exception  to 
this  theory ; scarcely  had  they  ceased  to  regard  each  other 


348 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


as  friends  when  they  began  to  feel  as  enemies.  Alas  ! is  it 
not  ever  so  ? Does  not  the  good  soil,  which,  when  culti- 
vated with  care,  produces  the  fairest  flowers  and  the  richest 
fruits,  rear  up,  when  neglected  and  abandoned,  the  most 
noxious  weeds  and  the  rankest  thistles  ? And  yet  it  was 
love  for  another,  — that  passion  so  humanizing  in  its  influ- 
ence, so  calculated  to  assuage  the  stormy  and  vindictive 
traits  of  even  a savage  nature,  — it  was  love  that  made 
them  thus.  To  how  many  is  the  “ light  that  lies  in 
woman’s  eyes  ” but  a beacon  to  lure  to  ruin  ? When  we 
think  that  but  one  can  succeed  where  so  many  strive,  what 
sadness  and  misery  must  not  result  to  others  ? 

Another  change  came  over  them,  and  a stranger  still. 
Eisendecker,  the  violent  youth,  of  ungovernable  temper, 
and  impetuous  passion,  who  loved  the  wildest  freak  of 
student-daring,  and  ever  was  the  first  to  lead  the  way  in 
each  mad  scheme,  had  now  become  silent  and  thoughtful; 
a gentle  sadness  tempered  down  the  fierce  traits  of  his  hot 
nature,  and  he  no  longer  frequented  his  old  haunts  of  the 
cellar  and  the  fighting  school,  but  wandered  alone  into  the 
country,  and  spent  whole  days  in  solitude.  Von  Mtihry, 
on  the  other  hand,  seemed  to  have  assumed  the  castaway 
mantle  of  his  once  friend;  the  gentle  bearing  and  almost 
submissive  tone  of  his  manner  were  exchanged  for  an  air 
of  conscious  pride,  — a demeanor  that  bespoke  a tri- 
umphant spirit;  and  the  quiet  youth  suddonly  seemed 
changed  to  a rash,  high-spirited  boy,  reckless  from  very 
happiness.  During  this  time,  Eisendecker  had  attached 
himself  particularly  to  me;  and  although  I had  always 
hitherto  preferred  Von  Muhry,  the  feeling  of  the  other’s 
unhappiness,  a sense  of  compassion  for  suffering,  which  it 
was  easy  to  see  was  great,  drew  me  closer  in  my  friendship 
towards  him ; and,  at  last,  I scarcely  saw  Adolphe  at  all, 
and  when  we  did  meet,  a mutual  feeling  of  embarrassment 
separated  and  estranged  us  from  each  other.  About  this 
time  I set  off  on  an  excursion  to  the  Hartz  Mountains,  to 
visit  the  Brocken,  and  see  the  mines;  my  absence,  delayed 
beyond  what  I first  intended,  was  above  four  weeks,  and  I 
returned  to  Gottingen  just  as  the  summer  vacation  was 
about  to  begin. 


THE  STUDENT. 


349 


About  five  leagues  from  Gottingen,  on  tlie  road  towards 
Nordheim,  there  is  a little  village  called  Meissner,  a fa- 
vorite resort  of  the  students,  in  all  their  festivals;  while, 
at  something  less  than  a mile  distant,  stands  a water-mill, 
on  a little  rivulet  among  the  hills, — a wild,  sequestered 
spot,  overgrown  with  stunted  oak  and  brushwood.  A nar- 
row bridle  -path  leads  to  it  from  the  village,  and  this  was 
the  most  approved  place  for  settling  all  those  affairs  of 
honor  whose  character  was  too  serious  to  make  it  safe  to 
decide  nearer  the  University;  for,  strangely  enough,  while 
by  the  laws  of  the  University  duelling  was  rigidly  de- 
nounced, yet  whenever  the  quarrel  was  decided  by  the 
sword,  the  authorities  never  or  almost  never  interfered, 
but  if  a pistol  was  the  weapon,  the  thing  at  once  took  a 
more  serious  aspect. 

For  what  reasons  the  mills  have  been  always  selected  as 
the  appropriate  scenes  for  such  encounters,  I never  could 
discover;  but  the  fact  is  unquestionable,  and  I never  knew 
a University  town  that  did  not  possess  its  “water  privi- 
leges ” in  this  manner. 

Towards  the  mill  I was  journeying  at  the  easy  pace  of 
my  pony,  early  on  a summer’s  morning,  preferring  the 
rural  breakfast  with  the  miller  — for  they  are  always  a 
kind  of  innkeepers  — to  the  fare  of  the  village.  I entered 
the  little  bridle-path  that  conducted  to  his  door,  and  was 
sauntering  listlessly  along,  dreaming  pleasantly,  as  one 
does,  when  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the  heavy  odor  of 
dew-pressed  flowers  steep  the  heart  in  happiness  all  its 
own,  when,  behind  me,  I heard  the  regular  tramp  of 
marching.  I listened;  had  I been  a stranger  to  the  sound, 
I should  have  thought  them  soldiers,  but  I knew  too  well 
the  measured  tread  of  the  student,  and  I heard  the  jingling  of 
their  heavy  sabres, — a peculiar  clank  a student’s  ear  can- 
not be  deceived  in.  I guessed  at  once  the  object  of  their 
coming,  and  grew  sick  at  heart  to  think  that  the  storm  of 
men’s  stubborn  passions  and  the  strife  of  their  revengeful 
nature  should  desecrate  a peaceful  spot  like  this.  I was 
about  to  turn  back,  disgusted  at  the  thought,  when  I re- 
membered I must  return  by  the  same  path,  and  meet  them ; 
but  even  this  I shrunk  from.  The  footsteps  came  nearer 


350 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


and  nearer,  and  I had  barely  time  to  move  off  the  path  into 
the  brushwood,  and  lead  my  pony  after,  when  they  turned 
the  angle  of  the  way.  They  who  walked  first  were  muffled 
in  their  cloaks,  whose  high  collars  concealed  their  faces; 
but  the  caps  of  many  a gaudy  color  proclaimed  them  stu- 
dents. At  a little  distance  behind,  and  with  a slower  step, 
came  another  party,  among  whom  I noticed  one  who  walked 
between  two  others,  his  head  sunk  on  his  bosom,  and  evi- 
dently overcome  with  emotions  of  deep  sorrow.  A move- 
ment of  my  horse  at  this  instant  attracted  their  attention 
towards  the  thicket;  they  stopped,  and  a voice  called  out 
my  name.  I looked  round,  and  there  stood  Eisendeeker 
before  me.  He  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and  looked 
pale  and  worn,  his  black  beard  and  mustache  deepening 
the  haggard  expression  of  features,  to  which  the  red  bor- 
ders of  his  eyelids,  and  his  bloodless  lips,  gave  an  air  of 
the  deepest  suffering.  “Ah,  my  friend,”  said  he,  with  a 
sad  effort  at  a smile,  “you  are  here  quite  a propos.  I am 
going  to  fight  Adolphe  this  morning.”  A fearful  presenti- 
ment that  such  was  the  case  came  over  me  the  instant  I 
saw  him ; but  when  he  said  so,  a thrill  ran  through  me, 
and  I grew  cold  from  head  to  foot. 

“I  see  you  are  sorry,”  said  he,  tenderly,  while  he  took 
my  hand  within  both  of  his;  “but  you  would  not  blame 
me, — indeed  you  would  not, — if  you  knew  all.” 

“What,  then,  was  the  cause  of  this  quarrel?  How  came 
you  to  an  open  rupture?  ” 

He  turned  round,  and  as  he  did  so  his  face  was  purple, 
the  blood  suffused  every  feature,  and  his  very  eyeballs 
seemed  like  bursting  with  it.  He  tried  to  speak;  but  I 
only  heard  a rushing  noise  like  a hoarse-drawn  breath. 

“Be  calm,  my  dear  Eisendeeker,”  said  I.  “Cannot  this 
be  settled  otherwise  than  thus?  ” 

“No,  no!  ” said  he,  in  the  voice  of  indignant  passion  I 
used  to  hear  from  him  long  before,  “never!  ” He  waved 
his  hand  impatiently  as  he  spoke, and  turned  his  head  from 
me.  At  the  same  moment  one  of  his  companions  made  a 
sign  with  his  hand  towards  me. 

“What!  ” whispered  I in  horror, — “a  blow?  ” 

A brief  nod  was  the  reply.  Alas!  from  that  minute  all 


THE  STUDENT. 


351 


hope  left  me.  Too  well  I knew  the  desperate  alternative 
that  awaited  such  an  insult.  Reconciliation  was  no  longer 
to  be  thought  of.  I asked  no  more,  but  followed  the  group 
along  the  path  towards  the  mill. 

In  a little  garden,  as  it  was  called, — we  should  rather 
term  it  a close-shaven  grass-plot, — where  some  tables  and 
benches  were  placed  under  the  shade  of  large  chestnut- 
trees,  Adolphe  von  Miihry  stood,  surrounded  by  a number 
of  his  friends.  He  was  dressed  in  his  costume  as  a mem- 
ber of  the  Prussian  club  of  the  Landsmanschaft, — a kind 
of  uniform  of  blue  and  white, with  a silver  braiding  on  the 
cuffs  and  collar, — and  looked  handsomer  than  ever  1 saw 
him.  The  change  his  features  had  undergone  gave  him  an 
air  of  manliness  and  confidence  that  greatly  improved  him, 
and  his  whole  carriage  indicated  a degree  of  self-reliance 
and  energy  which  became  him  perfectly.  A faint  blush 
colored  his  cheek  as  he  saw  me  enter,  and  he  lifted  his 
cap  straight  above  his  head  and  saluted  me  courteously, 
but  with  an  evident  effort  to  appear  at  ease  before  me.  I 
returned  his  salute  mournfully, — perhaps  reproachfully, 
too,  for  he  turned  away  and  whispered  something  to  a 
friend  at  his  side. 

Although  I had  seen  many  duels  with  the  sword,  it  was 
the  first  time  I was  present  at  an  affair  with  pistols  in 
Germany;  and  I was  no  less  surprised  than  shocked  to 
perceive  that  one  of  the  party  produced  a dice-box  and 
dice,  and  placed  them  on  a table. 

Eisendecker  all  this  time  sat  far  apart  from  the  rest,  and, 
with  folded  arms  and  half-closed  eyelids,  seemed  to  wait 
in  patience  for  the  moment  of  being  called  on. 

“What  are  they  throwing  for,  yonder?”  whispered  I to 
a Saxon  student  near  me. 

“For  the  shot,  of  course,”  said  he;  “not  but  that  they 
might  spare  themselves  the  labor.  Eisendecker  must  fire 
first;  and  as  for  who  comes  second  after  him  — ” 

“Is  he  so  sure  as  that?  ” asked  I in  terror;  for  the  fear- 
ful vision  of  blood  would  not  leave  my  mind. 

“That  is  he.  The  fellow  that  can  knock  a bullet  off  a 
champagne  bottle  at  five-and-twenty  paces  may  chance  to 
hit  a man  at  fifteen.” 


352 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“Miihry  has  it,”  cried  out  one  of  those  at  the  table;  and 
I heard  the  words  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth  till  they 
reached  Eisendecker,  as  he  moved  his  cane  listlessly  to 
and  fro  in  the  mill-stream. 

“Remember  Ludwig,”  said  his  friend,  as  he  grasped  his 
arm  with  a strong  clasp;  “remember  what  I told  you.” 

The  other  nodded  carelessly,  and  merely  said,  “Is  all 
ready?  ” 

“Stand  here,  Eisendecker,”  said  Miiliry’s  second,  as  he 
dropped  a pebble  in  the  grass. 

Miihry  was  already  placed,  and  stood  erect,  his  eyes 
steadily  directed  to  his  antagonist,  who  never  once  looked 
towards  him,  but  kept  his  glance  fixed  straight  in  front. 

“You  fire  first,  sir,”  said  Muhry’s  friend,  while  I could 
mark  that  his  voice  trembled  slightly  at  the  words.  “You 
may  reserve  your  fire  till  I have  counted  twenty  after  the 
word  is  given.” 

As  he  spoke  he  placed  the  pistol  in  Eisendecker’s  hand, 
and  called  out, — 

“Gentlemen,  fall  back,  fall  back;  I am  about  to  give 
the  word.  Herr  Eisendecker,  are  you  ready?” 

A nod  was  the  reply. 

“Now!  ” cried  he,  in  a loud  voice;  and  scarcely  was  the 
word  uttered  when  the  discharge  of  the  pistol  was  heard. 
So  rapid,  indeed,  was  the  motion,  that  we  never  saw  him 
lift  his  arm;  nor  could  any  one  say  what  direction  the  ball 
had  taken. 

“I  knew  it,  I knew  it,”  muttered  Eisendecker’s  friend, 
in  tones  of  agony.  “All  is  over  with  him  now.” 

Before  a minute  elapsed,  the  word  to  fall  back  was  again 
given,  and  I now  beheld  Von  Miihry  standing  with  his 
pistol  in  hand,  while  a smile  of  cool  but  determined  malice 
sat  on  his  features. 

While  the  second  repeated  the  same  words  over  to  him, 
I turned  to  look  at  Eisendecker,  but  he  evinced  no  appar- 
ent consciousness  of  what  was  going  on  about  him;  his 
eyes,  as  before,  were  bent  on  vacancy;  his  pale  face,  un- 
moved, showed  no  signs  of  passion.  In  an  instant  the 
fearful  “Now”  rang  out,  and  Miihry  slowly  raised  his 
arm,  and,  levelling  his  pistol  steadily,  stood  with  his  eye 


THE  STUDENT. 


353 


bent  on  his  victim.  While  the  deep  voice  of  the  second 
slowly  repeated  one  — two  — three  — four  — never  was 
anything  like  the  terrible  suspense  of  that  moment.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  very  seconds  of  human  life  were  measur- 
ing out  one  by  one.  As  the  word  “ten”  dropped  from  his 
lips,  I saw  Miihry’s  hand  shake.  In  his  revengeful  desire 
to  kill  his  man,  he  had  waited  too  long,  and  now  he  was 
growing  nervous;  he  let  fall  iiis  arm  to  his  side,  and 
waited  for  a few  seconds,  then  raising  it  again,  he  took  a 
steady  aim,  and  at  the  word  “nineteen”  fired. 

A slight  movement  of  Eisendecker’s  head  at  this  instant 
brought  his  face  full  front;  and  the  bullet,  which  would 
have  transfixed  his  head,  now  merely  passed  along  his 
cheek,  tearing  a rude  flesh-wound  as  it  went. 

A half-cry  broke  from  Muhry:  I heard  not  the  word; 
but  the  accent  I shall  never  cease  to  remember.  It  was 
now  Eisendecker’s  time;  and  as  the  blood  streamed  down 
his  cheek,  and  fell  in  great  drops  upon  his  neck  and  shoul- 
ders, I saw  his  face  assume  the  expression  it  used  to  wear 
in  former  days.  A terrible  smile  lit  up  his  dark  features, 
and  a gleam  of  passionate  vengeance  made  his  eye  glow 
like  that  of  a maniac. 

“I  am  ready, — give  the  word,”  cried  he,  in  frantic 
impatience. 

But  Miihry’s  second,  fearful  of  giving  way  to  such  a 
moment  of  passion,  hesitated;  when  Eisendecker  again 
called  out,  “ The  word,  sir,  the  word ! ” and  the  bystanders, 
indignant  at  the  appearance  of  unfairness,  repeated  the 
cry. 

The  crowd  fell  back,  and  the  word  was  given.  Eisen- 
decker raised  his  weapon,  poised  it  for  a second  in  his 
hand,  and  then,  elevating  it  above  his  head,  brought  it 
gradually  down,  till,  from  the  position  where  I stood,  I 
could  see  that  he  aimed  at  the-  heart. 

His  hand  was  now  motionless,  as  if  it  were  marble; 
while  his  eye,  riveted  on  his  antagonist,  seemed  to  fix  on 
one  small  spot,  as  though  his  whole  vengeance  was  to  be 
glutted  there.  Never  was  suspense  more  dreadful,  and  I 
stood  breathless,  in  the  expectation  of  the  fatal  flash, 
when,  with  a jerk  of  his  arm,  he  threw  up  the  pistol  and 

23 


354 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


fired  above  his  head;  and  then,  with  a heart-rending  cry 
of  “Mein  bruder,  mein  bruder,”  rushed  into  Miihry’s  arms, 
and  fell  into  a torrent  of  tears. 

The  scene  was  indeed  a trying  one,  and  few  could  wit- 
ness it  unmoved.  As  for  me,  I turned  away  completely 
overcome ; while  my  heart  found  vent  in  thankfulness  that 
such  a fearful  beginning  should  end  thus  happily. 

“Yes,”  said  Eisendecker,  as  we  rode  home  together  that 
evening,  when,  after  a long  silence,  he  spoke;  “yes,  I had 
resolved  to  kill  him ; but  when  my  finger  was  even  on  the 
trigger,  I saw  a look  upon  his  features  that  reminded  me 
of  those  earlier  and  happier  days  when  we  had  but  one 
home  and  one  heart,  and  I felt  as  if  I was  about  to  become 
the  murderer  of  my  brother.” 

Need  I add  that  they  were  friends  forever  after? 

But  I must  leave  Gottingen  and  its  memories  too.  They 
recall  happy  days,  it  is  true;  but  they  who  made  them  so 
— where  are  they? 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


SPAS  AND  GRAND  DUKEDOMS. 

It  was  a strange  ordinance  of  the  age  that  made  watering- 
places  equally  the  resort  of  the  sick  and  the  fashionable, 
the  dyspeptic  and  the  dissipated.  One  cannot  readily  see 
by  what  magic  chalybeates  can  minister  to  a mind  diseased, 
nor  how  sub-carbonates  and  proto-chlorides  may  compensate 
to  the  faded  spirit  of  an  ennuyee  fine  lady  for  the  bygone 
delights  of  a London  or  a Paris  season ; much  less,  through 
what  magnetic  influence  gambling  and  gossip  can  possibly 
alleviate  affections  of  the  liver,  or  roulette  be  made  a medi- 
cal agent  in  the  treatment  of  chronic  rheumatism. 

It  may  be  replied  that  much  of  the  benefit  — some  would 
go  farther,  and  say  all  — to  be  expected  from  the  watering- 
places  is  derivable  from  change  of  scene  and  habit  of  liv- 
ing, new  faces,  new  interests,  new  objects  of  curiosity,  aided 
by  agreeable  intercourse,  and  what  the  medical  folk  call 
“ pleasant  and  cheerful  society.”  This,  be  it  known,  is  no 
chance  collocation  of  words  set  down  at  random;  it  is  a bond 
fide  technical,  — as  much  so  as  the  hardest  Greek  compound 
that  ever  floored  an  apothecary.  “Pleasant  and  cheerful 
society ! ” they  speak  of  it  as  they  would  of  the  latest  im- 
provement in  chemistry  or  the  last  patent  medicine,  — a 
thing  to  be  had  for  asking  for,  like  opodeldoc  or  Morison’s 
pills.  A line  of  treatment  is  prescribed  for  you,  winding 
up  in  this  one  principle ; and  your  physician,  as  he  shakes 
your  hand  and  says  “ good-by,”  seems  like  an  angel  of  be- 
nevolence, who,  instead  of  consigning  you  to  the  horrors  of 
the  pharmacopoeia  and  a sick  bed,  tells  you  to  pack  off  to 
the  Rhine,  spend  your  summer  at  Eras  or  Wiesbaden,  and, 
above  all  things,  keep  early  hours,  and  “ pleasant,  cheerful 
society.” 

Oh,  why  has  no  martyr  to  the  miseries  of  a “ liver  ” or 
the  sorrows  of  “nerves”  ever  asked  his  M.  D.  where  — 


356 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


where  is  this  delightful  intercourse  to  he  found  ? or  by 
what  universal  principle  of  application  can  the  same  tone 
of  society  please  the  mirthful  and  the  melancholy,  the  man 
of  depressed,  desponding  habit,  and  the  man  of  sanguine, 
hopeful  temperament  ? How  can  the  indolent  and  leth- 
argic soul  be  made  to  derive  pleasure  from  the  bustling 
energies  of  more  excited  natures,  or  the  fidgety  victim  of 
instability  sympathize  with  the  delights  of  quiet  and  tran- 
quillity ? He  who  enjoys  “rude  health”  — the  phrase  must 
have  been  invented  by  a fashionable  physician ; none  other 
could  have  deemed  such  a possession  an  offensive  quality  — 
may  very  well  amuse  himself  by  the  oddities  and  eccen- 
tricities of  his  fellow  men,  so  ludicrously  exhibited  en  scene 
before  him.  But  in  what  way  will  these  things  appear  to 
the  individual  with  an  ailing  body  and  a distempered  brain  ? 
It  is  impossible  that  contrarieties  of  temperament  would 
ever  draw  men  into  close  intimacy  during  illness.  The  very 
nature  of  a sick  man’s  temper  is  to  undervalue  all  suffer- 
ings save  his  own  and  those  resembling  his.  The  victim  of 
obesity  has  no  sympathies  with  the  martyr  to  atrophy ; he 
may  envy,  he  cannot  pity  him.  The  man  who  cannot  eat 
surely  has  little  compassion  for  the  woes  of  him  who  has  the 
“ wolf,”  and  must  be  muzzled  at  meal  times.  The  result, 
then,  is  obvious.  The  gloomy  men  get  together  in  groups,  and 
croak  in  concert;  each  mind  brings  its  share  of  affliction  to 
the  common  fund,  and  they  form  a joint-stock  company  of 
misery  that  rapidly  assists  their  progress  to  the  grave  ; 
while  the  nervously  excited  ones  herd  together  by  dozens, 
suggesting  daily  new  extravagancies  and  caprices  for  the 
adoption  of  one  another,  till  there  is  not  an  air-drawn  dag- 
ger of  the  mind  unfamiliar  to  one  among  them ; and  in  this 
race  of  exaggerated  sensibility  they  not  uncommonly  tumble 
over  the  narrow  boundary  that  separates  eccentricity  from 
something  worse. 

This  massing  together  of  such  people  in  hundreds  must 
be  ruinous  to  many,  and  few  can  resist  the  depressing  influ- 
ence which  streets  full  of  pale  faces  suggest,  or  be  proof 
against  the  melancholy  derivable  from  a whole  promenade 
of  cripples.  There  is  something  indescribably  sad  in  these 
rendezvous  of  ailing  people  from  all  parts  of  Europe, — 


SPAS  AND  GRAND  DUKEDOMS. 


357 


north,  south,  east,  and  west ; the  snows  of  Norway  and 
the  suns  of  Italy ; the  mountains  of  Scotland  and  the 
steppes  of  Russia;  comparing  their  symptoms  and  chron- 
icling their  sufferings ; watching  with  the  egotism  of  sick- 
ness the  pallor  on  their  neighbor’s  cheek,  and  calculating 
their  own  chances  of  recovery  by  the  progress  of  some 
other  invalid. 

But  were  this  all,  the  aspect  might  suggest  gloomy 
thoughts,  but  could  not  excite  indignant  ones.  Unhappily, 
however,  there  is  a reverse  to  the  medal.  “ The  pleasant 
and  cheerful  society  ” so  confidently  spoken  of  by  your 
doctor  has  another  representation  than  in  the  faces  of  sick 
people.  These  watering-places  are  the  depots  of  conti- 
nental vice,  the  licensed  bazaars  of  foreign  iniquity,  the 
sanctuary  of  the  outlaw,  the  home  of  the  swindler,  the 
last  resource  of  the  ruined  debauchee,  the  one  spot  of  earth 
beneath  the  feet  of  the  banished  defaulter.  They  are  the 
parliaments  of  European  blackguardism,  to  which  Paris  con- 
tributes her  escrocs,  England  her  “ legs  ” from  Newmarket 
and  Doncaster,  and  Poland  her  refugee  counts,  — victims  of 
Russian  cruelty  and  barbarity. 

To  begin,  — and  to  understand  the  matter  properly,  you 
must  begin  by  forgetting  all  you  have  been  so  studiously 
storing  up  as  fact  from  the  books  of  Head,  Granville,  and 
others,  and  merely  regard  them  as  the  pleasant  romances 
of  gentlemen  who  like  to  indulge  their  own  easy  humors  in 
a vein  of  agreeable  gossip,  or  the  more  profitable  occupation 
of  collecting  grand-ducal  stars  and  snuff-boxes. 

These  delightful  pictures  of  Brunnens,  secluded  in  the 
recesses  of  wild  mountain  districts  inaccessible  save  to  some 
adventurous  traveller ; the  peaceful  simplicity  of  the  rural 
life  ; the  primitive  habits  of  a happy  peasantry  ; the  hum- 
ble but  contented  existence  of  a little  community  estranged 
from  all  the  shocks  and  strife  of  the  world ; the  lovely 
scenery;  the  charming  intercourse  with  gifted  and  culti- 
vated minds;  the  delightful  reunions,  where  Metternich, 
Chateaubriand,  and  Humboldt  are  nightly  to  be  met,  mixing 
among  the  rest  of  the  company,  and  chatting  familiarly  with 
every  stranger ; the  peaceful  tranquillity  of  the  spot,  — an 
oasis  in  the  great  desert  of  the  world’s  troubles,  where  the 


358 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


exhausted  mind  and  tired  spirit  may  lie  down  in  peace  and 
take  its  rest,  lulled  by  the  sound  of  falling  water  or  the 
strains  of  German  song,  — these,  I say,  cleverly  put  for- 
ward, with  “eight  illustrations  taken  on  the  spot,”  make 
pretty  books,  and  pleasant  to  read,  but  not  less  dangerous 
to  follow;  while  exaggerated  catalogues  of  cures  and  re- 
coveries, the  restoration  from  sufferings  of  a life  long,  the 
miraculous  list  of  sick  men  made  sound  ones  through  the 
agency  of  sulphurates  and  sub-carbonates,  are  still  more  to 
be  guarded  against  as  guides  to  the  spas  of  Germany. 

Now,  I would  not  for  a moment  be  supposed  to  throw 
discredit  on  the  efficiency  of  Aix  or  Ems,  Wiesbaden  or 
Toplitz,  or  any  of  them.  In  some  cases  they  have  done, 
and  will  do,  it  may  be  hoped,  considerable  benefit  to  many 
sufferers.  I would  merely  desire  to  slide  in,  amidst  the 
universal  paean  of  praise,  a few  words  of  caution  respecting 
the  morale  of  these  watering-places ; and  in  doing  so  I 
shall  be  guided  entirely  by  the  same  principle  I have  fol- 
lowed in  all  the  notes  of  my  “Loiterings,”  rather  to  touch 
follies  and  absurdities  than  to  go  deeper  down  into  the 
strata  of  crimes  and  vices ; at  the  same  time,  wherever  it 
may  be  necessary  for  my  purpose,  I shall  not  scruple  to  cut 
into  the  quick  if  the  malady  need  it. 

And  to  begin,  — imagine  in  the  first  place  a Grand 
Duchy  of  such  moderate  proportions  that  its  sovereign 
dare  not  take  in  the  “Times”  newspaper;  for  if  he 
opened  it,  he  must  intrude  upon  the  territory  of  his  neigh- 
bors. His  little  kingdom,  however,  having  all  the  attri- 
butes of  a real  state,  possesses  a minister  for  the  home  and 
a minister  for  the  foreign  department ; it  has  a chancellor 
of  the  exchequer  and  a secretary  at  war ; and  if  there  were 
half  a mile  of  seaboard,  would  inevitably  have  a board  of 
admiralty  and  a ministre  de  la  marine.  It  is  also  provided 
with  a little  army,  something  in  the  fashion  of  Bombastes 
Furioso’s,  where  each  arm  of  the  service  has  its  one  repre- 
sentative, or  that  admirable  Irish  corps,  which,  when  in- 
quired after  by  the  General  of  the  District,  “ Where  is  the 
Donegal  Light  Horse  ? ” was  met  by  the  answer  of,  “ Here 
I am,  yer  honor  ! ” And  though  certainly  nothing  could 
possibly  be  more  modestly  devised  than  the  whole  retinue 


SPAS  AND  GRAND  DUKEDOMS. 


350 


of  state,  though  the  fantassins  be  fifty,  and  the  cavalry 
five,  still  they  must  be  fed,  clothed,  and  kept  in  tobacco,  — 
a question  of  some  embarrassment,  when  it  is  considered 
that  the  Grand  Duchy  produces  little  grain  and  less  grass, 
has  neither  manufacture  nor  trade,  nor  the  means  of  pro- 
viding for  other  wants  than  those  of  a simple  and  hard- 
working peasantry.  There  is,  however,  a palace,  with  its 
accompaniments  of  grand  marechal,  equerries,  cooks,  and 
scullions,  — a vast  variety  of  officials  of  every  grade  and 
class,  who  must  be  provided  for.  How  is  this  done  ? 
Simply  enough,  when  the  secret  is  once  known,  — four 
yards  of  green  baize,  with  two  gentlemen  armed  with 
wooden  rakes,  and  a box  full  of  five-franc  pieces.  Nothing 
more  is  wanting.  For  the  mere  luxury  of  the  thing,  as  a 
matter  of  pin-money  to  the  grand  duchess,  if  there  be  one, 
you  may  add  a roulette-table  ; but  rouge  et  noir  will  supply 
all  the  trumpery  expedients  of  taxation,  direct  and  indirect. 
You  neither  want  collectors,  custom-houses,  nor  colonies ; 
you  may  snap  your  fingers  at  trade  and  import  duties,  and 
laugh  at  the  clumsy  contrivances  by  which  other  chancel- 
lors provide  for  the  expenditure  of  other  countries. 

The  machinery  of  revenue  reduces  itself  to  this : first 
catch  a Jew.  For  your  petty  villanies  any  man  will  suf- 
fice ; but  for  your  grand  schemes  of  wholesale  plunder, 
there  is  nothing  like  an  Israelite ; besides,  he  has  a kind  of 
pride  in  his  vocation.  For  the  privilege  of  the  gambling- 
table  he  will  pay  munificently,  he  will  keep  the  whole 
grand-ducal  realm  in  beer  and  beetroot  the  year  through, 
and  give  a very  respectable  privy  purse  to  the  sovereign 
besides.  To  him  you  deliver  up  all  the  nations  of  the 
earth  outside  your  own  little  frontier,  none  of  those  within 
it  being  under  any  pretext  admitted  inside  the  walls  of 
the  gambling  house ; for,  like  the  sick  apothecary,  you 
know  better  than  to  take  anything  in  the  shop.  You  give 
him  a carte  blanche,  sparing  the  little  realm  of  Hesse-Hom- 
burg,  to  cheat  the  English,  pigeon  the  Russians,  ruin  French, 
Swedes,  Swiss,  and  Yankees  to  his  heart’s  content ; you  set 
no  limits  to  his  grand  career  of  roguery;  you  deliver,  bound, 
into  his  hands  all  travellers  within  your  realm,  to  be  fleeced 
as  it  may  seem  fit.  What  care  you  for  the  din  of  factories 


360 


AKTHUR  O’LEARY. 


or  the  clanking  hammers  of  the  foundries  ? The  rattle  of 
the  dice-box  and  the  scraping  of  the  croupier’s  mace  are 
pleasanter  sounds,  and  fully  as  suggestive  of  wealth.  You 
need  not  descend  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for  riches ; 
the  gold,  ready  stamped  from  the  mint,  comes  bright  and 
shining  to  your  hand.  Fleets  may  founder  and  argosies 
may  sink,  but  your  dollars  come  safely  in  the  pockets  of 
their  owners,  and  are  paid,  without  any  cost  of  collection, 
into  the  treasury  of  the  State.  Manchester  may  glut  the 
earth  with  her  printed  calicoes,  Sheffield  may  produce  more 
carving-knives  than  there  are  carvers.  Your  resources  can 
suffer  no  such  casualties  as  these  ; you  trade  upon  the  vices 
of  mankind,  and  need  never  dread  a year  of  scarcity.  The 
passion  for  play  is  more  contagious  than  the  small-pox,  and 
unhappily  the  malady  returns  after  the  first  access.  Every 
gambler  who  leaves  fifty  Napoleons  in  your  territory  is 
bound  in  a kind  of  recognizance  to  return  next  year  and 
lose  double  the  sum.  Each  loss  is  but  an  instalment  of  the 
grand  total  of  his  ruin,  and  you  have  contracted  for  that. 

But  even  the  winner  does  not  escape  you.  A hundred 
temptations  are  provided  to  seduce  him  into  extravagance 
and  plunge  him  into  expense,  — tastes  are  suggested,  and 
habits  of  luxury  inculcated,  that  turn  out  sad  comforters 
when  a reverse  of  fortune  compels  him  to  a more  limited 
expenditure  ; so  that  when  you  extinguish  the  unlucky  man 
by  a summary  process,  you  reserve  a lingering  death  for  the 
more  fortunate  one.  In  the  language  of  the  dock,  it  is  only 
“ a long  day  ” he  obtains,  after  all. 

How  pleasant,  besides,  to  reflect  that  the  storms  of  politi- 
cal strife,  which  agitate  other  heads,  never  reach  yours. 
The  violence  of  party  spirit,  the  rancor  of  the  press,  are 
hushed  before  the  decorous  silence  of  the  gaming-table  and 
the  death-like  stillness  of  rouge  et  noir.  There  is  no  need 
of  a censorship  when  there  is  a croupier.  The  literature  of 
your  realm  is  reduced  to  a card,  to  be  pricked  by  the  pin 
of  a gamester ; and  men  have  no  heads  for  the  pleasures  of 
reading,  when  stared  in  the  face  by  ruin.  Other  states 
may  occupy  themselves  with  projects  of  philanthropy  and 
benevolence,  they  may  project  schemes  of  public  usefulness 
and  advantage,  they  may  advance  the  arts  of  civilization, 


SPAS  AND  GRAND  DUKEDOMS. 


30 1 


and  promote  plans  of  national  greatness  ; your  course  is  an 
easier  path,  and  is  never  unsuccessful. 

But  some  one  may  say  here,  How  are  these  people  to 
live  ? I agree  at  once  with  the  sentiment,  — no  one  is  more 
ready  to  assent  to  that  excellent  adage,  — “ II  faut  que  tout 
le  monde  vive,  even  grand-dukes.”  But  there  are  a hun- 
dred ways  of  eking  out  subsistence  in  cheap  countries, 
without  trenching  on  morality.  The  military  service  of 
Austria,  Prussia,  and  Prussia  is  open  to  them,  should  their 
own  small  territories  not  suffice  for  moderate  wants  and 
wishes.  In  any  case  I am  not  going  to  trouble  my  head 
with  providing  for  German  princes,  while  I have  a large 
stock  of  nephews  and  nieces  little  better  off.  All  I care 
for  at  present  is  to  point  out  the  facts  of  a case,  and  not  to 
speculate  on  how  they  might  be  altered. 

Now,  to  proceed.  In  proportion  as  vice  is  more  preva- 
lent, the  decorum  of  the  world  would  appear  to  increase, 
and  internal  rottenness  and  external  decency  bear  a due  re- 
lation to  each  other.  People  could  not  thus  violate  the 
outward  semblance  of  morality,  by  flocking  in  hundreds 
and  tens  of  hundreds  to  those  gambling  states,  those  rouge 
et  noir  dependencies,  those  duchies  of  the  dice-box.  A 
man’s  asking  a passport  for  Baden  would  be  a tacit  aver- 
ment, “I  am  going  to  gamble.”  Ordering  post-horses  for 
Eras  would  be  like  calling  for  “ fresh  cards  ; ” and  you 
would  as  soon  confess  to  having  passed  a few  years  in  Van 
Diemen’s  Land  as  acknowledge  a summer  on  the  Rhine. 

What,  then,  was  to  be  done  ? It  was  certainly  a diffi- 
culty, and  might  have  puzzled  less  ingenious  heads  than 
grand-ducal  advisers.  They,  however,  soon  hit  upon  the 
expedient.  They  are  shrewd  observers,  and  clever  men  of 
the  world.  They  perceived  that  while  other  eras  have  been 
marked  by  the  characteristic  designation  of  brass,  gold,  or 
iron,  this,  with  more  propriety,  might  be  called  the  age  of 
bile.  Never  was  there  a period  when  men  felt  so  much  in- 
terested in  their  stomachs  ; at  no  epoch  were  mankind  so 
deeply  concerned  for  their  livers ; this  passion  — for  it  is 
such  — not  being  limited  to  the  old  or  feeble,  to  the  broken 
and  shattered  constitution,  but  extending  to  all  age  and  sex, 
including  the  veteran  of  a dozen  campaigns  and  the  belle 


362 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


of  a London  season,  the  hard-lined  and  seasoned  features 
of  a polar  traveller,  and  the  pale,  soft  cheek  of  beauty, 
the  lean  proportions  of  shrunken  age,  and  the  plump  de- 
velopment of  youthful  loveliness.  In  the  words  of  the  song, 

“No  age,  no  profession,  no  station  is  free.” 

It  is  the  universal  mania  of  our  century,  and  we  may  ex- 
pect that  one  day,  our  vigorous  pursuit  of  knowledge  on 
the  subject  will  allow  us  to  be  honorably  classed  with  the 
equally  intelligent  seekers  for  the  philosopher’s  stone. 

With  this  great  feature  of  the  time,  then,  nothing  was 
easier  than  to  comply.  The  little  realm  of  Ilesse-Homburg 
might  not  have  attractions  of  scenery  or  society ; its  climate 
might,  like  most  of  those  north  of  the  Alps,  be  nothing 
to  boast  of ; its  social  advantages  being  a zero,  what  could 
it  possess  as  a reason  — a good,  plausible  reason,  for  draw- 
ing travellers  to  its  frontier  ? Of  course,  a Spa ! — some- 
thing very  nauseous  and  very  foul  smelling,  as  nearly  as 
possible  like  a warm  infusion  of  rotten  eggs,  thickened 
with  red  clay.  Germany  happily  abounds  in  these  ; Nature 
has  been  kind  to  her,  at  least  under  ground,  and  you  have  only 
to  dig  two  feet  in  any  limestone  district  to  meet  with  the 
most  sovereign  thing  on  earth  for  stomachic  derangements. 

The  Spa  discovered,  a doctor  was  found  to  analyze  it,  and 
another  to  write  a book  upon  it.  Nothing  more  were  neces- 
sary. The  work,  translated  into  three  or  four  languages, 
set  forth  all  the  congenial  advantages  of  pumps  and  pro- 
menades, sub-carbonates,  table  d*  holes,  waltzing,  and  mine- 
ral waters.  The  pursuit  of  health  no  longer  presented  a 
grim  goddess  masquerading  in  rusty  black  and  a bald  fore- 
head, but  a lovely  nymph,  in  a Parisian  toilette,  conversing 
like  a French  woman,  and  dancing  like  an  Austrian. 

Who  would  not  be  ill,  I wonder  ? Who  would  not  discover 
that  Hampshire  was  too  high  and  Essex  too  low,  Devon  too 
close  and  Cumberland  too  bracing  ? Who  would  not  give  up 
his  village  M.D.,  and  all  his  array  of  bottles,  with  their 
long  white  cravats,  for  a ramble  to  the  Rhine,  where  luxu- 
rious living,  belles,  and  balls  abounded,  and  where  soit  dit 
en  passant,  the  rouge  et  noir  table  afforded  the  easy  re- 
source of  supplying  all  such  pleasures,  so  that  you  might 


SPAS  AND  GRAND  DUKEDOMS. 


3G3 


grow  robust  and  rich  at  once,  and  while  imbibing  iron 
into  your  blood,  lay  up  a stock  of  gold  with  your  banker  ? 
Hence  the  connection  between  Spas  and  gambling;  hence 
the  fashionable  flocking  to  those  healthful  spots  by  thou- 
sands who  never  felt  illness ; hence  the  unblushing  avowal 
of  having  been  a mouth  at  Baden  bv  those  who  would 
fliuch  at  acknowledging  an  hour  in  a nell ; and  hence,  more 
important  than  all,  at  least  to  one  individual  concerned,  the, 
source  of  that  real  alchemy  by  which  a grand-duke,  like 
Macheath,  can 

“Turn  all  his  lead  to  gold.” 

Well  may  he  exclaim,  with  the  gallant  captain,  — 

“ Fill  every  glass  ! ” 

Were  the  liquor  champagne  or  tokay,  it  could  not  be 
a hundredth  part  as  profitable  ; and  the  whole  thing  pre- 
sents a picture  of  “ hocussing  ” on  the  grandest  scale  ever 
adopted. 

The  fifteen  glasses  of  abomination  demand  a walk  of 
half  an  hour,  or  an  hour  in  the  Cursaal.  The  Cursaal  is 
a hell ! there  is  no  need  to  mince  it.  The  taste  for  play 
is  easily  imbibed  — what  bad  taste  is  not  ? — and  thus, 
while  you  are  drawing  the  pump,  the  grand-duke  is  diving 
into  your  pocket.  Here,  then,  — I shall  not  add  a word,  — 
is  the  true  state  of  the  Spas  of  Germany.  As  I believe 
it  is  customary  to  distinguish  all  writers  on  these  “ foun- 
tains of  health  ” by  some  mark  of  princely  favor  pro- 
portionate to  their  services  of  praise,  I beg  to  add,  if  the 
Gross  Herzog  von  Hesse-Homburg  deems  the  present  a 
suitable  instance  for  notice,  that  Arthur  O’Leary  will  re- 
ceive such  evidence  of  grand-ducal  approbation  with  a most 
grateful  spirit,  and  acknowledge  the  same  in  some  future 
volume  of  his  “Loiterings,”  only  requesting  to  mention 
that  when  Theodore  Hook  — poor  fellow  ! — was  dining 
once  with  a London  alderman  remarkable  for  the  display 
and  the  tedium  of  his  dinners,  he  felt  himself  at  the  end  of 
an  hour  and  a half’s  vigorous  performance  only  in  the  middle 
of  the  entertainment;  upon  which  he  laid  down  his  knife, 
and  in  a whisper  thus  uttered  himself  : “ Eating  more  is 
out  of  the  question  ; so  I ’ll  take  the  rest  out  in  money.” 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


THE  TRAVELLING  PARTY. 

I have  already  taken  occasion  to  indoctrinate  my  reader 
on  the  subject  of  what  I deem  the  most  perfect  species  of 
table  d’hote.  May  I now  beg  of  him,  or  her,  if  she  will  be 
kind  enough,  to  accompany  me  to  the  table-monstre  of 
Wiesbaden,  Ems,  or  Baden-Baden?  We  are  at  the  Cursaal, 
or  Shuberts,  or  the  “Hof  von  Nassau ” at  Wiesbaden.  Four 
hundred  guests  are  assembled,  their  names  indicative  of 
every  land  of  Europe,  and  no  small  portion  of  America; 
the  mixture  of  language  giving  the  impression  of  its  being 
a grand  banquet  to  the  “operatives  at  Babel,”  but  who, 
not  satisfied  with  the  chances  of  misunderstanding  afforded 
by  speaking  their  own  tongues  to  foreigners,  have  adven- 
tured on  the  more  certain  project  of  endeavoring  to  being 
totally  unintelligible,  by  speaking  languages  with  which 
they  are  unacquainted;  while  in  their  dress,  manner,  and 
appearance,  the  great  object  seems  to  be  an  accurate  imita- 
tion of  some  other  country  than  their  own.  Hence  French- 
men affect  to  seem  English,  English  to  look  like  Prussians, 
Prussians  to  appear  Poles,  Poles  to  be  Calmucks.  Your 
“elegant  ” of  the  Boulevard  de  Ghent  sports  a “cut  away  ” 
like  a Yorkshire  squire,  and  rides  in  cords;  your  Londoner 
wears  his  hair  on  his  shoulders,  and  his  mustaches  like  a 
Pomeranian  count;  Turks  find  their  way  into  tight  trousers 
and  “Wellingtons;”  and  even  the  Yankees  cannot  resist 
the  soft  impeachment,  but  take  three  inches  off  their  hair 
behind,  and  don’t  whittle  before  company. 

Nothing  is  more  amusing  than  these  general  congresses 
of  European  vagrancy.  Characters  the  most  original  meet 
you  at  every  step,  and  display  most  happily  traits  you 
never  have  the  opportunity  to  inspect  at  home.  For  so  it 
is,  the  very  fact  of  leaving  home  with  most  people  seems 


THE  TRAVELLING  PARTY. 


365 


like  an  absolution  from  all  the  necessities  of  sustaining 
a part.  They  feel  as  though  they  had  taken  off  the  stage 
linery  in  which  they  had  fretted  away  their  hours  before, 
and  stand  forth  themselves  in  propria . Thus  your  grave 
Chancery  lawyer  becomes  a chatty  pleasant  man  of  the 
world,  witty  and  conversable;  your  abstruse  mathemati- 
cian, leaving  conic  sections  behind  him,  talks  away  with 
the  harmless  innocence  of  a child  about  men  and  politics; 
and  even  your  cold  “exclusive”  bids  a temporary  farewell 
to  his  “morgue,”  and  answers  his  next  neighbor  at  table 
without  feeling  shocked  at  his  obtrusion. 

There  must  be  some  secret  sympathy  — of  whose  opera- 
tions we  know  nothing  — between  our  trunks  and  our  tem- 
peraments, our  characters  and  our  carpet-bags;  and  that 
by  the  same  law  which  opens  one  to  the  inspection  of  an 
official  at  the  frontier,  the  other  must  be  laid  bare  when 
we  pass  across  it.  How  well  would  it  have  been  for  us,  if 
the  analogy  had  been  pushed  a little  further,  that  the  fiscal 
regulations  adopted  in  the  former  were  but  extended  to  the 
latter,  and  that  we  had  applied  the  tariff  to  the  morals,  as 
well  as  to  the  manufactures,  of  the  Continent. 

It  was  in  some  such  musing  as  this  I sat  in  a window 
of  the  Nassau,  at  Wiesbaden,  during  the  height  of  the 

season  of  . Strangers  were  constantly  arriving,  and 

hourly  was  the  reply  “no  room  ” given  to  the  disconsolate 
travellers,  who  peered  from  their  carriages  with  the  road- 
sick  look  of  a long  journey.  As  for  myself,  I had  been 
daily  and  nightly  transferred  from  one  quarter  of  the  hotel 
to  another, — now  sleeping  in  an  apartment  forty  feet 
square,  in  a bed  generally  reserved  for  royalty,  now 
bivouacking  under  the  very  slates;  one  night  exposed  to 
the  incessant  din  of  the  street  beside  my  windows,  the 
next,  in  a remote  wing  of  the  building,  where  there  were 
no  bells  in  the  chambers,  nor  any  waiter  was  ever  known 
to  wander.  In  fact',  I began  to  believe  that  they  made  use 
of  me  to  air  the  beds  of  the  establishment,  and  was  seri- 
ously disposed  to  make  a demand  for  some  compensation 
in  my  bill;  and  if  I might  judge  from  the  pains  in  my 
bones  I contracted  in  “Lit  de  Parade,”  I must  have  saved 
her  Majesty  of  Greece,  who  was  my  successor  in  it,  a nota- 


366 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


ble  attack  of  rheumatism.  To  this  shuttlecock  state  of 
existence  the  easiness  of  my  nature  made  me  submit  tamely 
enough,  and  I never  dreamed  of  rebellion. 

I was  sitting  conning  over  to  myself  the  recollections  of 
some  faces  I had  seen  before,  when  the  head  waiter  ap- 
peared before  me,  with  a request  that  I would  be  kind 
enough  to  give  up  my  place  at  the  table,  which  was  No. 
14,  to  a gentleman  lately  arrived,  and  who  desired  to  sit 
near  his  friends  in  that  vicinity.  “To  be  sure,”  said  1 at 
once;  “I  have  no  acquaintance  here,  and  114  will  do  me  as 
well  as  14, — place  me  where  you  like.”  At  the  same 
time,  it  rather  puzzled  me  to  learn  what  the  individual 
could  be  like  who  conceived  such  a violent  desire  to  be  in 
the  neighborhood  of  some  Hamburgh  Jews,  — for  such 
were  the  party  around  me, — when  the  waiter  began  to 
make  room  for  a group  that  entered  the  room,  and  walked 
up  to  the  end  of  that  table.  A glance  told  they  were  Eng- 
lish. There  was  an  elderly  man,  tall  and  well-looking, 
with  the  air  “gentleman”  very  legibly  written  on  his 
quiet,  composed  features ; the  carriage  of  his  head,  and  a 
something  in  his  walk,  induced  me  to  believe  him  military. 
A lady  leaned  on  his  arm,  some  thirty  years  his  junior, — 
he  was  about  sixty-six  or  seven, — whose  dress  and  style 
were  fashionable,  at  the  same  time  that  they  had  not  that 
perfect  type  of  unpretending  legitimacy  that  belongs  essen- 
tially to  but  one  class.  She  was,  in  fact,  trop  bien  mise 
for  a table  d’hote;  for  although  only  a morning  costume, 
there  was  a display  about  it  which  was  faulty  in  its  taste; 
her  features,  without  being  handsome,  were  striking,  as 
much  for  the  carriage  of  her  head  as  anything  in  them- 
selves. There  was  an  air  of  good  looks,  as  though  to  say, 
“If  you  don’t  think  me  handsome,  the  fault  is  yours.” 
Her  eyes  were  of  a bluish  gray,  large  and  full,  with 
lightly-arched  brows;  but  the  mouth  was  the  most  charac- 
teristic feature, — it  was  firm  and  resolute-looking,  closely 
compressed,  and  with  a slight  protrusion  of  the  lower  lip, 
that  said  as  plainly  as  words  could  say  it,  “I  will,  and 
that ’s  enough.”  In  walking,  she  took  some  pains  to  dis- 
play her  foot,  which,  with  all  the  advantages  of  a Parisian 
shoe,  was  scarcely  as  pretty  as  she  conceived  it,  but  on  the 


THE  TRAVELLING  PARTY. 


3G7 


whole  was  well-formed,  and  rather  erring  on  the  score  of 
size  than  symmetry. 

They  were  followed  by  three  or  four  young  men,  of 
whom  I could  only  remark  that  they  wore  the  uniform  ap- 
pearance of  young  Englishmen  of  good  class,  very  clean- 
looking faces,  well-brushed  hair,  and  well-fitting  frock 
coats.  One  sported  a mustache  of  a dirty-yellow  color, 
and  whiskers  to  match,  and  by  his  manner,  and  a certain 
half-shut-eye  kind  of  glance,  proclaimed  himself  the  know- 
ing man  of  the  party. 

While  they  were  taking  their  places,  which  they  did  at 
once  on  entering,  1 heard  a general  burst  of  salutations 
break  from  them  in  very  welcome  accent : “ Oh,  here  he  is, 
here  he  comes.  Ah,  I knew  we  should  see  him.”  At  the 
same  instant,  a tall,  well-dressed  fellow  leaned  over  the 
table  and  shook  hands  with  them  all  in  succession. 

“When  did  you  arrive?”  said  he,  turning  to  the 
lady. 

“Only  an  hour  ago;  Sir  Marmaduke  would  stay  at 
Frankfort  yesterday,  to  see  Duvernet  dance,  and  so  we 
were  detained  beyond  our  time.” 

The  old  gentleman  half  blushed  at  this  charge,  and  while 
a look  of  pleasure  showed  that  he  did  not  dislike  the  accu- 
sation, he  said, — 

“No,  no;  I stayed  to  please  Calthorpe.” 

“Indeed!  ” said  the  lady,  turning  a look  of  very  pecu- 
liar, but  unmistakable,  anger  at  him  of  the  yellow  mus- 
tache. “Indeed,  my  lord!  ” 

“Oh,  yes,  that  is  a weakness  of  mine,”  said  he,  in  an 
easy  tone  of  careless  banter,  which  degenerated  to  a mut- 
ter, heard  only  by  the  lady  herself. 

“I  ought  to  have  a place  somewhere  here  about,”  said 
the  tall  man.  “Number  14  or  15,  the  waiter  said.  Hallo, 
gargon  — ” 

At  this  he  turned  round,  and  I saw  the  well-remembered 
face  of  my  fellow-traveller,  the  Honorable  Jack  Small- 
branes.  He  looked  very  hard  at  me,  as  if  he  were  puzzled 
to  remember  where  or  when  we  had  met,  and  then,  with 
a cool  nod,  said,  “How  d'ye  do?  — over  in  England 
lately?  ” 


368 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“Not  since  I had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  Rotter- 
dam. Did  you  go  far  with  the  Alderman’s  daughters?  ” 

A very  decided  wink  and  a draw  down  of  the  brows  cau- 
tioned me  to  silence  on  that  subject;  but  not  before  the 
lady  had  heard  my  question,  and  looked  up  in  his  face 
with  an  expression  that  said, — “I’ll  hear  more  of  that 
affair  before  long.” 

“Monsieur  has  given  you  his  place,  sir,”  said  the  waiter, 
arranging  a chair  at  No.  14.  “I  have  put  you  at  83.” 

“All  right,”  replied  Jack,  as  if  no  recognition  were 
called  for  on  his  part,  and  that  he  was  not  sorry  to  be 
separated  from  one  with  an  unpleasant  memory. 

“I  am  shocked,  sir,”  said  the  lady,  addressing  me  in 
her  blandest  accents,  “ at  our  depriving  you  of  your  place, 
but  Mr.  Carrisbrook  will,  I ’m  sure,  give  you  his.” 

While  I protested  against  such  a surrender,  and  Mr. 
Carrisbrook  looked  very  much  annoyed  at  the  proposal, 
the  lady  only  insisted  the  more,  and  it  ended  in  Mr.  Car- 
risbrook — one  of  the  youths  already  mentioned  — being 
sent  down  to  83,  while  1 took  up  my  position  in  front  of 
the  party  in  his  place. 

I knew  to  what  circumstance  I was  indebted  for  this 
favorable  notice;  she  looked  up  to  me  as  a kind  of  king’s 
evidence,  whenever  the  Honorable  Jack  should  be  called 
up  for  trial,  and  already  I had  seen  a great  deal  into  the 
history  and  relative  position  of  all  parties.  Such  was  the 
state  of  matters  when  the  soup  appeared. 

And  now,  to  impart  to  my  readers,  as  is  my  wont,  such 
information  as  I possessed  afterwards,  and  not  to  keep  them 
waiting  for  the  order  in  which  1 obtained  it:  the  party  be- 
fore me  consisted  of  Sir  Marmaduke  Lonsdall  and  his  lady, 
— he,  an  old  general  officer  of  good  family  and  connections, 
who,  with  most  unexceptionable  manners  and  courtly  ad- 
dress, had  contrived  to  spend  a very  easy,  good-for-nothing 
existence,  without  ever  seeing  an  hour’s  service,  his  clubs 
and  his  dinner-parties  filling  up  life  tolerably  well,  with 
the  occasional  excitement  arising  from  who  was  in  and 
who  was  out,  to  season  the  whole.  Sometimes  a Lord  of 
the  Treasury,  with  a seat  for  a Government  borough,  and 
sometimes  patriotically  sitting  among  the  opposition  when 


THE  TRAVELLING  PARTY. 


3G9 


his  friends  were  out,  he  was  looked  upon  as  a very  honora 
ble,  straightforward  person,  who  could  not  be  “ overlooked  ” 
when  his  party  were  distributing  favors. 

My  Lady  Lonsdall  was  a soi-disant  heiress,  the  daughter 
of  some  person  unknown  in  the  city,  the  greater  part  of 
whose  fortune  was  unhappily  embarked  in  Poyais  Scrip, — 
a fact  only  ascertained  when  too  late,  and,  consequently, 
though  discoursing  most  eloquently  in  a prospectus  about 
mines  of  gold  and  silver,  strata  of  pearl  necklaces,  and 
diamond  earrings,  all  ready  to  put  on,  turned  out  an  un- 
fortunate investment,  and  only  realized  an  article  in  the 
“Times,”  headed  “another  bubble  speculation.”  Still, 
however,  she  was  reputed  very  rich,  and  Sir  Marmaduke 
received  the  congratulations  of  his  club  on  the  event  with 
the  air  of  a conqueror.  She  married  him  simply  because, 
having  waited  long  and  impatiently  for  a title,  she  was 
fain  to  put  up  at  last  with  a baronet.  Her  ambition  was 
to  be  in  the  fashionable  world;  to  be  among  that  sect  of 
London  elect  who  rule  at  Almack’s  and  dictate  at  the  West 
End;  to  occupy  her  portion  of  the  “Morning  Post,”  and  to 
have  her  name  circulated  among  the  illustrious  few  who 
entertain  royalty,  and  receive  archdukes  at  luncheon.  If 
the  Poyais  investment,  in  its  result,  denied  the  means  of 
these  extravagances,  it  did  not,  unhappily,  obliterate  the 
taste  for  them;  and  my  lady’s  ambition  to  be  fashionable 
was  never  at  a higher  spring-tide  than  when  her  fortunes 
were  at  the  ebb.  Now,  certes,  there  are  two  ways  to  Lon- 
don distinction, — rank  and  wealth.  A fair  union  of  both 
will  do  much,  but,  without  either,  the  pursuit  is  utterly 
hopeless.  There  is  but  one  course,  then,  for  these  unfor- 
tunate aspirants  of  celebrity, — it  is  to  change  the  venue 
and  come  abroad.  They  may  not,  it  is  true,  have  the  rank 
and  riches  which  give  position  at  home.  Still,  they  are 
better  off  than  most  foreigners:  they  have  not  the  wealth 
of  the  aristocracy,  yet  they  can  imitate  their  wickedness; 
their  habits  may  be  costly,  but  their  vices  are  cheap;  and 
thus  they  can  assert  their  high  position  and  their  fashion- 
able standing  by  displaying  the  abandonment  which  is  un- 
happily the  distinctive  feature  of  a certain  set  in  the  high 
world  of  London. 


24 


570 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Followed,  then,  by  a train  of  admirers,  she  paraded  about 
the  Continent,  her  effrontery  exalted  into  beauty,  her  cold 
insolence  assumed  to  be  high  breeding;  her  impertinence 
to  women  was  merely  exclusiveness,  and  her  condescend- 
ing manner  to  men  the  simple  acknowledgment  of  that 
homage  to  which  she  was  so  unquestionably  entitled. 

Of  her  suite,  they  were  animated  by  different  motives. 
Some  were  young  enough  to  be  in  love  with  any  woman 
who,  a great  deal  older  than  themselves,  would  deign  to 
notice  them.  The  noble  lord,  who  accompanied  her  always, 
was  a ruined  baron,  whose  own  wife  had  deserted  him  for 
another;  he  had  left  his  character  and  his  fortune  at  Don- 
caster and  Epsom;  and  having  been  horsewhipped  as  a 
defaulter,  and  outlawed  for  debt,  was  of  course  in  no  con- 
dition to  face  his  acquaintances  in  England.  Still  he  was 
a lord, — there  was  no  denying  that;  De  Brett  and  Burke 
had  chronicled  his  baptism,  and  the  eighth  baron  from 
Hugo  de  Colbrooke,  who  carried  the  helmet  of  his  sov- 
ereign at  Agincourt,  was  unquestionably  of  the  best  blood 
of  the  peerage.  Like  your  true  white  feather,  he  wore  a 
most  farouche  exterior;  his  mustaches  seemed  to  bristle 
with  pugnacity,  and  the  expression  of  his  eye  was  indescrib- 
ably martial;  he  walked  as  if  he  was  stepping  out  the 
ground,  and  in  his  salute,  he  assumed  the  cold  politeness 
with  which  a second  takes  off  his  hat  to  the  opposite  prin- 
cipal in  a duel;  even  his  valet  seemed  to  favor  the  illu- 
sion, as  he  ostentatiously  employed  himself  cleaning  his 
master’s  pistols,  and  arranging  the  locks,  as  though  there 
was  no  knowing  at  what  moment  of  the  day  he  might  not 
be  unexpectedly  called  on  to  shoot  somebody. 

This  noble  lord,  I say,  was  a part  of  the  household. 
Sir  Marmaduke  rather  finding  his  society  agreeable,  and 
the  lady  regarding  him  as  the  cork-jacket  on  which  she 
was  to  swim  into  the  ocean  of  fashion  at  some  remote  period 
or  other  of  her  existence. 

As  for  the  Honorable  Jack  Smallbranes,  who  was  he 
not  in  love  with, — or  rather  who  was  not  in  love  with 
him?  Poor  fellow  ! he  was  born,  in  his  own  estimation, 
to  be  the  destroyer  of  all  domestic  peace;  he  was  created 
to  be  the  ruin  to  all  female  happiness.  Such  a destiny 


THE  TRAVELLING  PARTY. 


371 


might  well  have  filled  any  one  with  sadness  and  depres- 
sion; most  men  would  have  grieved  over  a lot  which  con- 
demned them  to  be  the  origin  of  suffering.  Not  so,  Jack; 
he  felt  he  couldn’t  help  it, — that  it  was  no  affair  of  his  if 
he  were  the  best-looking  fellow  in  the  world.  The  thing 
was  so  palpable;  women  ought  to  take  care  of  themselves; 
he  sailed  under  no  false  flag.  No,  there  he  was,  the  most 
irresistible,  well-dressed,  and  handsomest  fellow  to  be  met 
with;  and  if  they  didn’t  escape,  — or,  to  use  his  own  ex- 
pression, “cut  their  lucky”  in  time, — the  fault  was  all 
their  own.  If  queens  smiled  and  archduchesses  looked  kind 
upon  him,  let  kings  and  archdukes  look  to  it.  He  took 
no  unfair  or  underhand  advantages;  he  made  no  secret 
attacks,  no  dark  advances, — lie  carried  every  fortress  by 
assault,  and  in  noonday.  Some  malicious  people  — the 
world  abounds  in  such  — used  to  say  that  Jack’s  gallan- 
tries were  something  like  Falstaff’s  deeds  of  prowess,  and 
that  his  victims  were  all  “in  buckram.”  But  who  could 
believe  it?  Did  not  victory  sit  on  his  very  brow;  were 
not  his  looks  the  signs  of  conquest;  and,  better  than  all, 
who  that  ever  knew  him  had  not  the  assurance  from  his 
own  lips?  With  what  a happy  mixture  of  nonchalance 
and  self-satisfaction  would  he  make  these  confessions! 
How  admirably  blended  was  the  sense  of  triumph  with 
the  consciousness  of  its  ease!  How  he  would  shake  his 
ambrosial  curls,  and  throw  himself  into  a pose  of  elegance, 
as  though  to  say,  “’T  was  thus  I did  it;  ain’t  I a sad 
dog?  ” 

Well,  if  these  conquests  were  illusions,  they  were  cer- 
tainly the  pleasantest  ever  a man  indulged  in.  They  con- 
soled him  at  heart  for  the  loss  of  fortune,  country,  and 
position;  they  were  his  recompense  for  all  the  lost  glories 
of  Crockford’s  and  the  Clarendon.  Never  was  there  such 
a picture  of  perfect  tranquillity  and  unclouded  happiness. 
Oh,  let  moralists  talk  as  they  will  about  the  serenity  of 
mind  derivable  alone  from  a pure  conscience,  the  peaceful 
nature  that  flows  from  a source  of  true  honor,  and  then 
look  abroad  upon  the  world  and  count  the  hundreds  whose 
hairs  are  never  tinged  with  gray,  whose  cheeks  show  no 
wrinkles,  whose  elastic  steps  suffer  no  touch  of  age,  and 


372 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


whose  ready  smile  and  cheerful  laugh  are  the  ever-present 
signs  of  their  contentment, — let  them  look  on  these,  and 
reflect  that  of  such  are  nine-tenths  of  those  who  figure  in 
lists  of  outlawry,  whose  bills  do  but  make  the  stamps  they 
are  written  on  of  no  value,  whose  creditors  are  Legion  and 
whose  credit  is  at  zero,  and  say  which  seems  the  happier. 
To  see  them,  one  would  opine  that  there  must  be  some 
secret  good  in  cheating  a coaclimaker,  or  some  hidden 
virtue  in  tricking  a jeweller;  that  hotel-keepers  are  a natu- 
ral enemy  to  mankind,  and  that  a tailor  has  not  a right 
even  to  a decimal  fraction  of  honesty.  Never  was  Epicu- 
rean philosophy  like  theirs;  they  have  a fine  liberal  sense 
of  the  blackguardisms  that  a man  may  commit,  and  yet 
not  forfeit  his  position  in  society.  They  know  the  precise 
condition  in  life  when  he  may  practise  dishonesty;  and 
they  also  see  when  he  must  be  circumspect.  They  have 
one  rule  for  the  city  and  another  for  the  club;  and,  better 
than  all,  they  have  stored  their  minds  with  sage  maxims  and 
wise  reflections,  which,  like  the  philosophers  of  old,  they 
adduce  on  every  suitable  occasion;  and  many  a wounded 
spirit  has  been  consoled  by  that  beautiful  sentiment,  so 
frequent  in  their  mouths,  of  — 

“ Go  ahead  ! for  what ’s  the  odds  so  long  as  you  ’re  happy  ? ” 

Such,  my  reader,  was  the  clique  in  which,  strangely 
enough,  I now  found  myself;  and  were  it  not  that  such 
characters  abound  in  every  part  of  the  Continent,  that  they 
swarm  at  spas  and  infest  whole  cities,  I would  scruple  to 
introduce  you  among  such  company.  It  is  as  well,  how- 
ever, that  you  should  be  put  on  your  guard  against  them, 
and  that  any  amusement  you  may  derive  from  the  study  of 
eccentricity  should  not  be  tarnished  with  the  recollection 
of  your  being  imposed  upon. 

There  happened,  on  the  day  I speak  of,  to  be  a man  of 
some  rank  at  table,  with  whom  I had  a slight,  a very 
slight  acquaintance;  but  in  passing  from  the  room  he 
caught  my  eye,  came  over,  and  conversed  with  me  for  a 
few  minutes.  From  that  moment  Lady  Lonsdall’s  man- 
ners underwent  a great  change  in  my  regard.  Not  only 
did  she  venture  to  look  at  me  without  expressing  any  air 


THE  TRAVELLING  PARTY. 


373 


of  supercilious  disdain,  but  even  vouchsafed  the  ghost  of 
a smile;  and,  as  we  rose  from  table,  I overheard  her  ask 
the  Honorable  Jack  for  my  name.  I could  not  hear  the 
first  part  of  his  reply,  but  the  last  was  couched  in  that 
very  classic  slang,  expressive  of  my  unknown  condition, — 

“ I take  it,  he  hain’t  got  no  friends  ! ” 

Notwithstanding  this  Foundling-Hospital  sentence,  Sir 
Marmaduke  was  instructed  to  invite  me  to  take  coffee, — 
an  honor  which,  having  declined,  we  separated,  as  do  peo- 
ple who  are  to  speak  when  next  they  meet. 

Meditating  on  the  unjust  impression  foreigners  must 
conceive  of  England  and  the  English  by  the  unhappy  speci- 
mens we  “grind  for  exportation,”  I sat  alone  at  a little 
table  in  the  park.  It  was  a sad  subject,  and  it  led  me 
further  than  I wished  or  knew  of.  I thought  I could  trace 
much  of  the  animosity  of  foreign  journals  to  English  policy 
in  their  mistaken  notions  of  national  character,  and  could 
well  conceive  how  dubiously  they  must  receive  our  claim 
to  being  high-spirited  and  honorable,  when  their  own  ex- 
periences would  incline  to  a different  conclusion;  for,  after 
all,  the  Fleet  Prison,  however  fashionable  its  inmates, 
would  scarcely  be  a flattering  specimen  of  England,  nor 
do  I think  Horsemonger  Lane  ought  to  be  taken  as  a fair 
sample  of  the  country.  It  is  vain  to  assure  foreigners 
that  these  people  are  not  known  nor  received  at  home, 
neither  held  in  credit  nor  estimation;  their  conclusive 
reply  is,  “ How  is  it,  then,  that  they  are  admitted  to  the 
tables  of  your  ambassadors,  and  presented  at  our  courts? 
Is  it  possible  you  would  dare  to  introduce  to  our  sovereigns 
those  whom  you  could  not  present  to  your  own?”  This 
answer  is  a fatal  one.  The  fact  is  so;  the  most  rigid  cen- 
sor of  morals  leaves  his  conscience  at  the  Ship  Hotel  at 
Dover;  he  has  no  room  for  it  on  a voyage,  or  perhaps  he 
thinks  it  might  be  detained  by  a revenue  officer.  What- 
ever the  cause,  he  will  know  at  Baden  — a}r,  and  walk 
with  — the  man  he  would  cut  in  Bond  Street,  and  drive 
with  the  party  at  Brussels  he  would  pass  to-morrow  if  he 
met  in  Hyde  Park. 

This  “ sliding  scale  ” of  morality  has  great  disadvan- 


374 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


tages ; none  greater  than  the  injury  it  inflicts  on  national 
character,  and  the  occasion  it  offers  for  our  disparagement 
at  the  hands  of  other  people.  It  is  in  vain  that  liberal  and 
enlightened  measures  mark  our  government,  or  that  philan- 
thropy and  humanity  distinguish  our  institutions  ; we  only 
get  credit  for  hypocrisy  so  long  as  we  throw  a mantle  over 
our  titled  swindlers  and  dishonorable  defaulters.  If  Na- 
poleon found  little  difficulty  in  making  the  sobriquet  of 
“La  Perfide  Albion”  popular  in  France,  we  owe  it  much 
more  to  the  degraded  characters  of  our  refugee  English 
than  to  any  justice  in  the  charge  against  the  nation.  In 
a word,  I have  never  met  a foreigner  commonly  fair  in  his 
estimate  of  English  character,  who  had  not  travelled  in 
England;  and  I never  met  one  unjust  in  all  that  regarded 
national  good  faith,  honesty,  and  uprightness,  who  had  vis- 
ited our  shores.  The  immunity  from  arrest  would  seem  to 
suggest  to  our  run-aways  an  immunity  from  all  the  ties  of 
good  conduct  and  character  of  our  countrymen,  who,  under 
that  strange  delusion  of  the  “ immorality  of  France,”  seem 
to  think  that  a change  of  behavior  should  be  adopted  in 
conformity  with  foreign  usage  ; and  as  they  put  on  less 
clothing,  so  they  might  dispense  with  a little  virtue  also. 

These  be  unpleasant  reflections,  Arthur,  and  I fear  the 
coffee  or  the  maraschino  must  have  been  amiss;  in  any 
case,  away  with  them,  and  now  for  a stroll  in  the  Cursaal. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


TUE  GAMBLIN  G*R  O O M. 

Englishmen  keep  their  solemnity  and  respectful  de- 
portment for  a church;  foreigners  reserve  theirs  for  a 
gambling-table.  Never  was  I more  struck  than  by  the 
decorous  stillness  and  well-bred  quietness  of  the  room  in 
which  the  highest  play  went  forward.  All  the  animation 
of  French  character,  all  the  bluntness  of  German,  all  the 
impetuosity  of  the  Italian  or  the  violent  rashness  of  the 
Russian,  were  calmed  down  and  subdued  beneath  the  in- 
fluence of  the  great  passion;  and  it  seemed  as  though  the 
Devil  would  not  accept  the  homage  of  his  votaries  if  not 
rendered  with  the  well-bred  manners  of  true  gentlemen. 
It  was  not  enough  that  men  should  be  ruined, — they 
should  be  ruined  with  easy  propriety  and  thorough  good 
breeding.  Whatever  their  hearts  might  feel,  their  faces 
should  express  no  discomfiture;  though  their  head  should 
ache  and  their  hand  should  tremble,  the  lip  must  be  taught 
to  say  “rouge  ” or  “noir”  without  any  emotion. 

I do  not  scruple  to  own  that  all  this  decorum  was  more 
dreadful  than  any  scene  of  wild  violence  or  excitement. 
The  forced  calmness,  the  pent-up  passion,  might  be  kept 
from  any  outbreak  of  words;  but  no  training  could  com- 
pletely subdue  the  emotions  which  speak  by  the  bloodshot 
eye,  the  quivering  cheek,  the  livid  lip. 

No  man’s  heart  is  consecrated  so  entirely  to  one  passion 
as  a gambler’s.  Hope  with  him  usurps  the  place  of  every 
other  feeling.  Hope,  however  rude  the  shocks  it  meets 
from  disappointment,  however  beaten  and  baffled,  is  still 
there;  the  flame  may  waste  down  to  a few  embers,  but  a 
single  spark  may  live  amid  the  ashes,  yet  it  is  enough  to 
kindle  up  into  a blaze  before  the  breath  of  fortune.  At 
first  he  lives  but  for  moments  like  these;  all  his  agonies, 


376 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


all  his  sufferings,  all  the  torturings  of  a mind  verging  on 
despair  are  repaid  by  such  brief  intervals  of  luck.  Yet 
each  reverse  of  fate  is  telling  on  him  heavily;  the  many 
disappointments  to  his  wishes  are  sapping  by  degrees  his 
confidence  in  fortune.  His  hope  is  dashed  with  fear;  and 
now  commences  within  him  that  struggle  which  is  the 
most  fearful  man’s  nature  can  endure.  The  fickleness  of 
chance,  the  waywardness  of  fortune,  fill  his  mind  with 
doubts  and  hesitations.  Sceptical  on  the  sources  of  his 
great  passion,  he  becomes  a doubter  on  every  subject;  he 
has  seen  his  confidence  so  often  at  fault  that  he  trusts 
nothing,  and  at  last  the  ruling  feature  of  his  character  is 
suspicion.  When  this  rules  paramount,  he  is  a perfect 
gambler;  from  that  moment  he  has  done  with  the  world 
and  all  its  pleasures  and  pursuits;  life  offers  to  him  no 
path  of  ambition,  no  goal  to  stimulate  his  energies.  With 
a mock  stoicism  he  affects  to  be  superior  to  the  race  which 
other  men  are  running,  and  laughs  at  the  collisions  of  party 
and  the  contests  of  politics.  Society,  art,  literature,  love 
itself,  have  no  attractions  for  him  then ; all  excitements 
are  feeble  compared  with  the  alternations  of  the  gaming- 
table; and  the  chances  of  fortune  in  real  life  are  too  tame 
and  too  tedious  for  the  impatience  of  a gambler. 

I have  no  intention  of  winding  up  these  few  remarks  by 
any  moral  episode  of  a gambler’s  life,  though  my  memory 
could  supply  me  with  more  than  one  such, — when  the 
baneful  passion  became  the  ruin,  not  of  a thoughtless, 
giddy  youth,  inexperienced  and  untried,  but  of  one  who 
had  already  won  golden  opinions  from  the  world,  and 
stood  high  in  the  ranks  which  lead  to  honor  and  distinc- 
tion. These  stories  have,  unhappily,  a sameness  which 
mars  the  force  of  their  lesson;  they  are  listened  to  like 
the  “refrain  ” of  an  old  song,  and  from  their  frequency  are 
disregarded.  No;  I trust  in  the  fact  that  education  and 
the  tastes  that  flow  from  it  are  the  best  safeguards  against 
a contagion  of  a heartless,  soulless  passion,  and  would 
rather  warn  my  young  countrymen  at  this  place  against 
the  individuals  than  the  system. 

“Am  I in  your  way,  sir?”  said  a short,  somewhat  over- 
dressed man,  with  red  whiskers,  as  he  made  room  for  me 


THE  GAMBLING-ROOM. 


377 


to  approach  the  play-table,  with  a politeness  quite  remark- 
able,— “am  I in  your  way,  sir?  ” 

“Not  in  the  least;  I beg  you  ’ll  not  stir.” 

“Pray  take  my  seat;  I request  you  will.” 

“By  no  means,  sir;  I never  play.  1 was  merely  look- 
ing on.” 

“Nor  I either, — or  at  least  very  rarely,”  said  he,  rising 
with  the  air  of  a man  who  felt  no  pleasure  in  what  was 
going  forward.  “You  don’t  happen  to  know  that  young 
gentleman  in  the  light-blue  frock  and  white  vest  yonder?  ” 
“No,  I never  saw  him  before.” 

“I ’m  sorry  for  it,”  said  he,  in  a whisper;  “he  has  just 
lost  seventy  thousand  francs,  and  is  going  the  readiest  way 
to  treble  the  sum  by  his  play.  I ’m  certain  he  is  English 
by  his  look  and  appearance,  and  it  is  a cruel  thing,  a very 
cruel  thing,  not  to  give  him  a word  of  caution  here.” 

The  words,  spoken  with  a tone  of  feeling,  interested  me 
much  in  the  speaker,  and  already  I was  angry  with  myself 
for  having  conceived  a dislike  to  his  appearance  and  a 
prejudice  against  his  style  of  dress. 

“I  see,”  continued  he,  after  a few  seconds’  pause, — “I 
see  you  agree  with  me.  Let  us  try  if  we  can’t  find  some 
one  who  may  know  him.  If  Wycherley  is  here  — you 
know  Sir  Harry,  I suppose?  ” 

“I  have  not  that  honor.” 

“Capital  fellow, — the  best  in  the  world.  He ’s  in  the 
Blues,  and  always  about  Windsor  or  St.  James’s.  He 
knows  everybody;  and  if  that  young  fellow  be  anybody, 
he ’s  sure  to  know  him.  Ah,  how  d’  ye  do,  my  Lord?  ” 
continued  he,  with  an  easy  nod,  as  Lord  Colebrook  passed. 
“Eh,  Crotty,  how  goes  it?”  was  the  reply. 

“You  don’t  happen  to  know  that  gentleman  yonder,  my 
Lord,  do  you?  ” 

“Not  I ; who  is  he?  ” 

“This  gentleman  and  I were  both  anxious  to  learn  who 
he  is;  he  is  losing  a deal  of  money.” 

“Eh,  dropping  his  tin,  is  he?  And  you’d  rather  save 
him,  Crotty?  All  right  and  sportsmanlike,”  said  his  lord- 
ship,  with  a knowing  wink,  and  walked  on. 

“A  very  bad  one,  indeed,  I fear,”  said  Crott}r,  looking 


378 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


after  him;  “but  I didn’t  think  him  so  heartless  as  that. 
Let  us  take  a turn,  and  look  out  for  Wycherley.” 

Now,  although  I neither  knew  Wycherley  nor  his  friend 
Crotty,  I felt  it  a case  where  one  might  transgress  a little 
on  etiquette,  and  probably  save  a young  man  — he  did  n’t 
look  twenty  — from  ruin ; and  so,  without  more  ado,  I 
accompanied  my  new  acquaintance  through  the  crowded 
salons , elbowing  and  pushing  along  amid  the  hundreds 
that  thronged  there.  Crotty  seemed  to  know  almost  every 
one  of  a certain  class;  and  as  he  went,  it  was  a perpetual 
“Comment  Qa  va,”  prince,  count,  or  baron;  or,  “How  d’ye 
do,  my  Lord?”  or,  “Eh,  Sir  Thomas,  you  here?”  etc.; 
when  at  length,  at  the  side  of  a doorway  leading  into  the 
supper-room,  we  came  upon  the  Honorable  Jack,  with  two 
ladies  leaning  upon  his  arms.  One  glance  was  enough;  I 
saw  they  were  the  Alderman’s  daughters.  Sir  Peter  him- 
self, at  a little  distance  off,  was  giving  directions  to  the 


waiter  for  supper. 

“Eh,  Crotty,  what  are  you  doing  to-night?”  said  Jack, 
with  a triumphant  look  at  his  fair  companions;  “any  mis- 
chief going  forward,  eh?  ” 

“Nothing  half  so  dangerous  as  your  doings,’  said  Crotty, 
with  a very  arch  smile;  “have  you  seen  Wycherley?  Is 
he  here?  ” 

“Can’t  possibly  say,”  yawned  out  Jack;  then  leaning 
over  to  me,  he  said  in  a whisper,  “Is  the  Princess  Yon 
Hohenstauvenof  in  the  rooms?  ” 

“I  really  don’t  know;  I ’m  quite  a stranger.” 

“By  Jove,  if  she  is,”  said  he,  without  paying  any  atten- 
tion to  my  reply,  “I ’m  floored,  that’s  all.  Lady  Maude 
Beverley  has  caught  me  already.  1 wish  you  d keep  the 
Heverington  girls  in  talk,  will  you?  ” 

“You  forget,  perhaps,  I have  no  acquaintance  here.’ 

“Oh  yes,  by  Jove,  so  I did!  Glorious  fun  you  must 
have  of  it!  What  a pace  I ’d  go  along  if  I was  n’t  known, 
eh  ! would  n’t  I?  ” 

“There ’s  Wycherley,— there  he  is,”  said  Crotty,  taking 
me  by  the  arm  as  he  spoke,  and  leading  me  forward.  ‘ Ho 
me  the  favor  to  give  me  your  name;  I should  like  you  to 
know  Wycherley,”  — and  scarcely  had  I pronounced  it, 


THE  GAMBLING-ROOM. 


379 


when  I found  myself  exchanging  greetings  with  a large, 
well-built,  black-whiskered,  and  mustached  man  of  about 
forty.  He  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and  looked  in 
his  manner  and  air  very  much  the  gentleman. 

“Have  you  got  up  the  party  yet,  Grotty?”  said  he,  after 
our  first  salutations  were  over,  and  with  a half-glance 
towards  me. 

“No,  indeed,”  said  Crotty,  slowly;  “the  fact  is,  I was  n’t 
thinking  of  it.  There ’s  a poor  young  fellow  yonder  los- 
ing very  heavily,  and  I wanted  to  see  if  you  knew  him; 
it  would  be  only  fair  to  — ” 

“So  it  would;  where  is  he?”  interrupted  the  baronet, 
as  he  pushed  through  the  crowd  towards  the  play-room. 

“I  told  you  he  was  a trump,”  said  Crotty,  as  we  fol- 
lowed him, — “the  fellow  to  do  a good-natured  thing  at 
any  moment.” 

While  we  endeavored  to  get  through  after  him,  we 
passed  close  beside  a small  supper-table,  where  sat  the 
Alderman  and  his  two  pretty  daughters,  the  Honorable 
Jack  between  them.  It  was  evident  from  his  boisterous 
gayety  that  he  had  triumphed  over  all  his  fears  of  detec- 
tion by  any  of  the  numerous  fair  ones  he  spoke  of, — his 
great  object  at  this  instant  appearing  to  be  the  desire  to 
attract  every  one’s  attention  towards  him,  and  to  publish 
his  triumph  to  all  beholders.  For  this,  Jack  conversed  in 
a voice  audible  at  some  distance  off,  surveying  his  victims 
from  time  to  time  with  the  look  of  the  Great  Mogul;  while 
they,  poor  girls,  only  imagined  themselves  regarded  for 
their  own  attractions,  which  were  very  considerable,  and 
believed  that  the  companionship  of  the  distinguished  Jack 
was  the  envy  of  every  woman  about  them.  As  for  the 
father,  he  was  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  a vol  an  vent , and 
perfectly  indifferent  to  such  insignificant  trifles  as  Jack’s 
blandishments  and  the  ladies’  blushes. 

Poor  girls!  no  persuasion  in  life  could  have  induced 
them  to  such  an  exhibition  in  their  own  country,  and  in 
company  with  one  their  equal  in  class.  But  the  fact  of  its 
being  Germany,  and  the  escort  being  an  Honorable,  made 
all  the  difference  in  the  world;  and  they  who  would  have 
hesitated  with  maiden  coyness  at  the  honorable  proposals 


380 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


of  one  of  their  own  class  felt  no  scruple  at  compromising 
themselves  before  hundreds,  to  indulge  the  miserable  van- 
ity of  a contemptible  coxcomb.  I stood  for  a second  or 
two  beside  the  table,  and  thought  within  myself,  “Is  not 
this  as  much  a case  to  call  for  the  interference  of  friendly 
caution  as  that  of  the  gambler  yonder?  ” But  then,  how 
was  it  possible? 

We  passed  on  and  reached  the  play-table,  where  we  found 
Sir  Harry  Wycherley  in  low  and  earnest  conversation  with 
the  young  gentleman.  I could  only  catch  a stray  expres- 
sion here  and  there,  but  even  they  surprised  me, — the 
arguments  advanced  to  deter  him  from  gambling  being 
founded  on  the  inconsiderate  plan  of  his  game,  rather  than 
on  the  immorality  and  vice  of  the  practice  itself. 

“Don’t  you  see,”  said  Sir  Harry,  throwing  his  eye  over 
the  card  all  dotted  with  pinholes, — “don’t  you  see  it ’s  a 
run,  a dead  run;  that  you  may  bet  on  red,  if  you  like,  a 
dozen  times,  and  only  win  once  or  twice?” 

The  youth  blushed,  and  said  nothing. 

“I’ve  seen  forty  thousand  francs  lost  that  way  in  less 
than  an  hour.” 

“I  ’ve  lost  seventy  thousand!  ” muttered  the  young  man, 
with  a shudder  like  one  who  felt  cold  all  over. 

“ Seventy ! — not  to-night,  surely?  ” 

“Yes,  to-night,”  replied  he.  “I  won  fourteen  hundred 
naps  here  when  I came  first,  and  did  n’t  play  for  three 
weeks  afterwards;  but  unfortunately  I strolled  in  here  a 
few  nights  ago,  and  lost  the  whole  back,  as  well  as  some 
hundreds  besides;  but  this  evening  I came  bent  on  win- 
ning back, — that  was  all  I desired, — winning  back  my 
own.” 

As  he  said  these  words,  I saw  Sir  Harry  steal  a glance 
at  Crotty.  The  thing  was  as  quick  as  lightning,  but  never 
did  a glance  reveal  more;  he  caught  my  eye  upon  him, 
and  looking  round  fully  at  me  said,  in  a deep,  ominous 
voice, — 

“That ’s  the  confounded  part  of  it;  it ’s  so  hard  to  stop 
when  you  ’re  losing.” 

“Hard!  — impossible!”  cried  the  youth,  whose  eyes 
were  now  riveted  on  the  table,  following  every  card  that 


THE  GAMBLING-ROOM. 


381 


fell  from  the  banker’s  hands,  and  flushing  and  growing 
pale  with  every  alternation  of  the  game.  “ See  now,  for 
all  you  ’ve  said,  look  if  the  red  has  not  won  four  times  in 
succession ! ” 

“So  it  has,”  replied  the  baronet,  coolly;  “but  the  pre- 
vious run  on  black  would  have  left  your  purse  rather  shal- 
low, or  you  must  have  a devilish  deep  one,  that ’s  all.” 

He  took  up  a pencil  as  he  spoke,  and  began  to  calculate 
on  the  back  of  the  card;  then  holding  it  over,  he  said, 
“There ’s  what  you ’d  have  lost  if  you  went  on  betting.” 
“What!  — two  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  francs?” 

“ Exactly ! Look  here ; ” and  he  went  over  the  figures 
carefully  before  him. 

“Don’t  you  think  you’ve  had  enough  of  it  to-night?” 
said  Crotty,  with  an  insinuating  smile;  “what  say  you  if 
we  all  go  and  sup  together  in  the  Saal?” 

“Agreed,”  said  Sir  Harry,  rising  at  once.  “Crotty,  will 
you  look  at  the  carte  and  do  the  needful?  You  may  trust 
him,  gentlemen,”  continued  he,  turning  towards  us  with  a 
smile;  “old  Crotty  has  a most  unexceptionable  taste  in  all 
that  regards  cuisine  and  cave  ; save  a slight  leaning  towards 
expense,  he  has  not  a fault ! ” 

I mumbled  out  something  of  an  apology,  which  was  un- 
fortunately supposed  by  the  baronet  to  have  reference  to 
his  last  remark.  I endeavored  to  explain  away  the  mis- 
take, and  ended  like  a regular  awkward  man  by  complying 
with  a request  I had  previously  resolved  to  decline.  The 
young  man  had  already  given  his  consent,  and  so  we  arose 
and  walked  through  the  rooms,  while  Crotty  inspected  the 
bill  of  fare  and  gr.ve  orders  about  the  wine. 

Wycherley  seemed  to  know  and  be  known  by  every  one, 
and  as  he  interchanged  greetings  with  the  groups  that 
passed,  declined  several  pressing  invitations  to  sup.  “The 
fact  is,”  said  he  to  one  of  his  most  anxious  inviters,  “the 
fact  is”  — and  the  words  were  uttered  in  a whisper  I could 
just  hear  — “ there ’s  a poor  young  fellow  here  who  has 
been  getting  it  rather  sharp  at  the  gold  table,  and  I 
mustn’t  lose  sight  of  him  to-night,  or  he  ’ll  inevitably  go 
back  there.” 

These  few  words  dispelled  any  uneasiness  I had  already 


382 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


labored  under  from  finding  myself  so  unexpectedly  linked 
with  two  strangers.  It  was  quite  clear  that  Sir  Harry  was 
a fine-hearted  fellow,  and  that  his  manly,  frank  counte- 
nance was  no  counterfeit.  As  we  went  along,  Wycherley 
amused  us  with  his  anecdotes  of  the  company,  with  whose 
private  history  he  was  conversant  in  its  most  minute  de- 
tails ; and  truly,  low  as  had  been  my  estimate  of  the  society 
at  first,  it  fell  considerably  lower  as  I listened  to  the  pri- 
vate memoirs  with  which  he  favored  us. 

Some  were  the  common  narratives  of  debt  and  desertion, 
protested  bills,  and  so  forth;  others  were  the  bit-by-bit 
details  of  extravagant  habits  pushed  beyond  all  limits,  and 
ending  in  expatriation  forever.  There  were  faithless  hus- 
bands, outraging  all  decency  by  proclaiming  their  bad  con- 
duct; there  were  as  faithless  wives,  parading  about  in  all 
the  effrontery  of  wickedness.  At  one  side  sat  the  roue 
companion  of  George  the  Fourth,  in  his  princely  days, 
now  a mere  bloated  debauch, e,  with  rouged  cheeks  and 
dyed  whiskers,  living  on  the  hackneyed  anecdotes  of  his 
youthful  rascality,  and  earning  his  daily  bread  by  an 
affected  epicurism  and  a Sybarite  pretension,  which  flat- 
tered the  vulgar  vanity  of  those  who  fed  him;  while  the 
lion  of  the  evening  was  a newly-arrived  earl,  whose  hunters 
were  that  very  day  sold  at  Tattersall’s,  and  whose  beauti- 
ful countess,  horror-stricken  at  the  ruin  so  unexpectedly 
come  upon  them,  was  lying  dangerously  ill  at  her  father’s 
house  in  London.  The  young  peer,  indeed,  bore  up  with 
a fortitude  that  attracted  the  highest  encomiums,  and  from 
an  audience  the  greater  portion  of  which  knew  in  their 
own  persons  most  of  the  ills  he  suffered.  He  exchanged 
an  easy  nod  or  a familiar  shake  of  the  hand  with  several 
acquaintances,  not  seen  before  for  many  a day,  and  seemed 
to  think  that  the  severest  blow  fortune  had  dealt  him  was 
the  miserable  price  his  stud  would  fetch  at  such  a time  of 
the  year. 

“The  old  story,”  said  Wycherley,  as  he  shook  him  by 
the  hand,  and  told  him  his  address, — “the  old  story;  he 
thought  twenty  thousand  a year  would  do  anything,  but 
it  won’t  though.  If  men  will  keep  a house  in  town,  and 
another  in  Gloucestershire,  with  a pack  of  fox-hounds,  and 


THE  GAMBLING-ROOM. 


383 


have  four  horses  in  training  at  Doncaster, — not  to  speak 
of  a yacht  at  Cowes  and  some  other  fooleries,  — they  must 
come  to  the  Jews;  and  when  they  come  to  the  Jews,  the 
pace  is  faster  than  for  the  Derby  itself.  Two  hundred 
per  cent  is  sharp  practice,  and  I can  tell  you  not  uncom- 
mon either;  and  then  when  a man  does  begin  to  topple, 
his  efforts  to  recover  always  ruin  him.  It ’s  like  a fall 
from  your  horse, — make  a struggle,  and  you’re  sure  to 
break  your  leg  or  your  collar-bone;  take  it  kindly,  and  the 
chances  are  that  you  get  up  all  right  again,  after  the  first 
shock.” 

I did  not  like  either  the  tone  or  the  morality  of  my 
companion;  but  I well  knew  both  were  the  conventional 
coinage  of  his  set,  and  I suffered  him  to  continue  without 
interruption. 

“There ’s  Mosely  Cranmer,”  said  he,  pointing  to  a slight 
effeminate-looking  young  man,  with  a most  girlish  softness 
about  his  features.  He  was  dressed  in  the  very  extreme  of 
fashion,  and  displayed  all  that  array  of  jewelry  in  pins, 
diamond  vest-buttons,  and  rings,  so  frequently  assumed  by 
modern  dandyism.  His  voice  was  a thin  reedy  treble, 
scarcely  deep  enough  for  a child. 

“ Who  is  he,  and  what  is  he  doing  here?”  asked  I. 

“ He  is  the  heir  to  about  eighty  thousand  per  annum,  to 
begin  with,”  said  Wycherley,  “which  he  has  already  dipped 
beyond  redemption.  So  far  for  his  property.  As  to  what 
he  is  doing  here,  you  may  have  seen  in  the  ‘Times’  last 
week  that  he  shot  an  officer  of  the  Guards  in  a duel,  — 
killed  him  on  the  spot.  The  thing  was  certain,  — Cran- 
mer ’s  the  best  pistol-shot  in  England.” 

“Ah,  Wycherley,  how  goes  it,  old  fellow?”  said  the 
youth,  stretching  out  two  fingers  of  his  well-gloved  hand. 
“You  see  Edderdale  is  come  over.  Egad!  we  shall  have 
all  England  here  soon, — leave  the  island  to  the  Jews,  I 
think!  ” 

Sir  Harry  laughed  heartily  at  the  conceit,  and  invited 
him  to  join  our  party  at  supper;  but  he  was  already,  I was 
rejoiced  to  find,  engaged  to  the  Earl  of  Edderdale,  who  was 
entertaining  a select  few  at  his  hotel,  in  honor  of  his 
arrival. 


384 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


A waiter  now  came  to  inform  us  tliat  Mr.  Crotty  was 
waiting  for  us,  to  order  supper,  and  we  immediately  pro* 
ceeded  to  join  him  in  the  Saal. 

The  baronet’s  eulogium  on  his  friend’s  taste  in  gour- 
mandaise  was  well  and  justly  merited.  The  supper  was 
admirable,  — the  “ potage  printaniere  ” seasoned  to  perfec- 
tion, the  “salmi  des  perdreaux,  aux  points  d’asperges,” 
delicious,  and  the  “ortolans  a la  provengale”  a dish  for 
the  gods;  while  the  wines  were  of  that  cru  and  flavor  that 
only  favored  individuals  ever  attained  to  at  the  hands  of  a 
landlord.  As  plat  succeeded  plat,  each  admirably  selected 
in  the  order  of  succession  to  heighten  the  enjoyment  and 
gratify  the  palate  of  the  guest,  the  conversation  took  its 
natural  turn  to  matters  gastronomic,  and  where,  I must 
confess,  I can  dally  with  as  sincere  pleasure  as  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  any  other  branch  of  the  fine  arts.  Mr.  Crotty’s 
forte  seemed  essentially  to  lie  in  the  tact  of  ordering  and 
arranging  a very  admirable  repast.  Wycherley,  however, 
took  a higher  walk;  he  was  historically  gastronome,  and 
had  a store  of  anecdotes  about  the  dishes  and  their  inven- 
tors, from  Clovis  to  Louis  Quatorze.  He  knew  the  favorite 
meats  of  many  illustrious  personages,  and  told  his  stories 
about  them  with  an  admirable  blending  of  seriousness  and 
levity. 

There  are  excellent  people,  Arthur,  who  will  call  you 
sensualist  for  all  this,  — good  souls,  who  eat  like  Cossacks 
and  drink  like  camels  in  the  desert;  before  whose  mastica- 
tory powers  joints  become  beautifully  less  in  shortest  space 
of  time,  and  who  while  devouring  in  greedy  silence  think 
nothing  too  severe  to  say  of  him  who,  with  more  cultivated 
palate  and  discriminating  taste,  eats  sparingly  but  choicely, 
making  the  nourishment  of  his  body  the  nutriment  of 
his  mind,  and  while  he  supports  nature,  can  stimulate 
his  imagination  and  invigorate  his  understanding.  The 
worthy  votaries  of  boiled  mutton  and  turnips,  of  ribs  and 
roasts,  believe  themselves  temperate  and  moderate  eaters, 
while  consuming  at  a meal  the  provender  sufficient  for  a 
family;  and  when,  after  an  hour’s  steady  performance, 
they  sit  with  hurried  breathing  and  half-closed  eyelids, 
sullen,  stupid,  and  stertorous,  drowsy  and  dull,  saturated 


THE  GAMBLING-ROOM. 


385 


with  stout  and  stuffed  with  Stilton,  they  growl  out  a 
thanksgiving  that  they  are  not  like  other  men,  — epicures 
and  wine-bibbers.  Out  upon  them,  I say!  Let  me  have 
my  light  meal,  be  its  limits  a cress,  and  the  beverage  that 
ripples  from  the  rock  beside  me;  but  be  it  such,  that,  while 
eating,  there  is  no  transfusion  of  the  beast  devoured  into 
the  man,  nor,  when  eaten,  the  semi-apoplectic  stupor  of  a 
gorged  boa! 

Sir  Harry  did  the  honors  of  the  table,  and  sustained  the 
burden  of  the  conversation,  to  which  Crotty  contributed 
but  little,  the  young  man  and  myself  being  merely  non- 
effectives;  nor  did  we  separate  until  the  gargon  came  to 
warn  us  that  the  Saal  was  about  to  close  for  the  night. 


25 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


A watering-place  doctor. 

Nothing  is  more  distinct  than  the  two  classes  of  people 
who  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  morning  and  in  the  afternoon, 
sauntering  along  the  aiiees  of  a German  watering-place. 
The  former  are  the  invalid  portion,  poured  forth  in  num- 
bers from  hotel  and  lodging-house;  attired  in  every  ab- 
surdity of  dressing-room  toilette,  with  woollen  night-caps 
and  flannel  jackets,  old-fashioned  douillettes  and  morocco 
slippers,  they  glide  along,  glass  in  hand,  to  some  sulphur 
spring,  or  to  repose  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  delights  of  a 
mud  bath.  For  the  most,  they  are  the  old  and  the  feeble, 
pale  of  face  and  tottering  in  step.  The  pursuit  of  health 
with  them  would  seem  a vain  and  fruitless  effort;  the 
machine  appears  to  have  run  its  destined  time,  and  all 
the  skill  of  man  is  unavailing  to  repair  it.  Still,  hope 
survives  when  strength  and  youth  have  failed,  and  the 
very  grouping  together  in  their  gathering  places  has  its 
consolation;  while  the  endless  diversity  of  malady  gives  an 
interest  in  the  eye  of  a sick  man. 

This  may  seem  strange,  but  it  is  nevertheless  perfectly 
true.  There  is  something  which  predisposes  an  invalid  to 
all  narratives  of  illness;  they  are  the  topics  he  dwells  on 
with  most  pleasure,  and  discourses  about  with  most  eager- 
ness. The  anxiety  for  the  “gentleman  next  door”  is 
neither  philanthropy,  nor  is  it  common  curiosity.  No, 
it  is  perfectly  distinct  from  either;  it  is  the  deep  interest 
in  the  course  of  symptoms,  in  the  ups  and  downs  of 
chance;  it  is  compounded  of  the  feelings  which  animate 
the  physician  and  those  which  fill  the  invalid.  And  hence 
we  see  that  the  severest  sufferings  of  their  neighbors  make 
less  impression  on  the  minds  of  such  people  than  on  those 
in  full  health.  It  is  not  from  apathy  nor  selfishness  they 


A WATERING-PLACE  DOCTOR. 


387 


are  seemingly  indifferent,  but  simply  because  they  regard 
the  question  in  a different  light:  to  take  an  illustration 
from  the  gaming-table,  they  have  too  deep  an  interest  in 
the  game  itself  to  feel  greatly  for  the  players.  The  visit 
of  the  doctor  is  to  them  the  brightest  moment  of  the  day; 
not  only  the  messenger  of  good  tidings  to  the  patient,  he 
has  a thousand  little  bits  of  sick-room  gossip,  harmless, 
pointless  trifles,  but  all  fraught  with  their  own  charm  to 
the  greedy  ear  of  the  sick  man.  It  is  so  pleasant  to  know 
how  Mrs.  W.  bore  her  drive,  or  Sir  Arthur  liked  his  jelly; 
what  Mrs.  T.  said  when  they  ordered  her  to  be  bled,  and 
whether  dear  Mr.  H.  would  consent  to  the  blister.  And 
with  what  consummate  tact  your  watering-place  doctor 
doles  out  the  infinitesimal  doses  of  his  morning’s  intelli- 
gence! How  different  his  visit  from  the  hurried  flight  of 
a West-End  practitioner,  who,  while  he  holds  his  watch  in 
hand,  counts  the  minutes  of  his  stay  while  he  feels  your 
pulse,  and  whose  descent  downstairs  is  watched  by  a cor- 
don of  the  household,  catching  his  directions  as  he  goes, 
and  learning  his  opinion  as  he  springs  into  his  chariot! 
Your  Spa  doctor  has  a very  different  mission;  his  are  no 
heroic  remedies,  which  taken  to-day  are  to  cure  to-morrow; 
his  character  is  tried  by  no  subtle  test  of  immediate  suc- 
cess; his  patients  come  for  a term,  or,  to  use  the  proper 
phrase,  for  “ a course  of  the  waters,  ” — then  they  are  con- 
demned to  chalybeates  for  a quarter  of  the  year,  so  many 
glasses  per  diem.  With  their  health,  properly  speaking, 
he  has  no  concern;  his  function  is  merely  an  inspection 
that  the  individual  drinks  his  fluid  regularly,  and  takes 
his  mud  like  a man.  The  patient  is  invoiced  to  him,  with 
a bill  of  lading  from  Bell  or  Brodie;  he  has  full  informa- 
tion of  the  merchandise  transmitted,  and  the  mode  in 
which  the  consignee  desires  it  may  be  treated, — out  of 
this  ritual  he  must  not  move.  The  great  physician  of  the 
West-End  says,  “Bathe  and  drink;”  and  his  charge 
d'affaires  at  Wiesbaden  takes  care  to  see  his  orders 
obeyed.  As  well  might  a format  at  Brest  or  Toulon  hope 
to  escape  the  punishment  described  in  the  catalogue  of 
prisoners,  as  for  a patient  to  run  counter  to  the  remedies 
thus  arranged,  and  communicated  by  post.  Occasionally 


388 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


changes  will  take  place  in  a sick  man’s  condition  en  route 
which  alter  the  applicability  of  his  treatment;  but,  then, 
what  would  you  have?  Brodie  and  Chambers  are  not 
prophets;  divination  and  augury  are  not  taught  in  the 
London  and  Middlesex  hospitals! 

I remember,  myself,  a marquis  of  gigantic  proportions, 
who  had  kept  his  prescription  by  him  from  the  time  of  his 
being  a stripling  till  he  weighed  twenty  stone.  The  fault 
here  lay  not  with  the  doctor.  The  bath  he  was  to  take 
contained  some  powerful  ingredient, — a preparation  of 
iron,  I believe;  well,  he  got  into  it,  and  immediately 
began  swelling  and  swelling  out,  till,  big  as  he  was  before, 
he  was  now  twice  the  size,  and  at  last,  like  an  overheated 
boiler,  threatened  to  explode  with  a crash.  What  was  to 
be  done?  To  lift  him  was  out  of  the  question,  — he  fitted 
the  bath  like  a periwinkle  in  its  shell;  and  in  this  dilemma 
no  other  course  was  open  than  to  decant  him,  water  and 
all,  — which  was  performed/to  the  very  considerable  mirth 
of  the  bystanders. 

The  Spa  doctor,  then,  it  will  be  seen,  moves  in  a very 
narrow  orbit.  He  must  manage  to  sustain  his  reputation 
without  the  aid  of  the  pharmacopoeia,  and  continue  to  be 
imposing  without  any  assistance  from  the  dead  languages. 
Hard  conditions!  but  he  yields  to  them,  like  a man  of 
nerve. 

He  begins,  then,  by  extolling  the  virtues  of  the  waters, 
which  by  analysis  of  “his  own  making,”  and  set  forth  in 
a little  volume  published  by  himself,  contain  very  dif- 
ferent properties  from  those  ascribed  to  them  by  others. 
He  explains  most  clearly  to  his  non-chemical  listener  how 
“pure  silica  found  in  combination  with  oxide  of  iron,  at 
a temperature  of  thirty-nine  and  a half  of  Fahrenheit,” 
must  necessarily  produce  the  most  beneficial  effects  on  the 
knee-joint;  and  he  describes,  with  all  the  ardor  of  science, 
the  infinite  satisfaction  the  nerves  must  experience  when 
invigorated  by  “ free  carbonic  gas  ” sporting  about  in  the 
system.  Day  by  day  he  indoctrinates  the  patient  into 
some  stray  medical  notion,  giving  him  an  interest  in  his 
own  anatomy,  and  putting  him  on  terms  of  familiar 
acquaintance  with  the  formation  of  his  heart  or  his 


A WATERING-PLACE  DOCTOR. 


389 


stomach.  This  flatters  the  sick  man,  and,  better  still, 
it  occupies  his  attention.  He  himself  thus  becomes  a 
particeps  in  the  flrst  degree  to  his  own  recovery;  and  the 
simplicity  of  treatment,  which  had  at  first  no  attractions 
for  his  mind,  is  now  complicated  with  so  many  little  curi- 
ous facts  about  the  blood  aud  the  nerves,  mucous  mem- 
branes and  muscles,  as  fully  to  compensate  for  any  lack 
of  mystery,  and  is  in  truth  just  as  unintelligible  as  the 
most  involved  inconsistency  of  any  written  prescription. 
Besides  this,  he  has  another  object  which  demands  his 
attention.  Plain,  common-sense  people,  who  know  nothing 
of  physic  or  its  mysteries,  might  fall  into  the  fatal  error 
of  supposing  that  the  wells  so  universally  employed  by  the 
people  of  the  country  for  all  purposes  of  washing,  bathing, 
and  cooking,  however  impregnated  by  mineral  properties, 
were  still  by  no  means  so  capable,  in  proportions  of  great 
power  and  efficacy,  of  effecting  either  very  decided  results, 
curative  or  noxious.  The  doctor  must  set  his  heel  on  this 
heresy  at  once;  he  must  be  able  to  show  how  a sip  too 
much  or  a half-glass  too  many  can  produce  the  gravest 
consequences;  and  no  summer  must  pass  over  without  at 
least  one  death  being  attributed  to  the  inconsiderate  rash- 
ness of  some  insensate  drinker.  Woe  unto  him  then  who 
drinks  without  a doctor!  You  might  as  well,  in  an  access 
of  intense  thirst,  rush  into  the  first  apothecary’s  shop,  and 
take  a strong  pull  at  one  of  the  vicious  little  vials  that  fill 
the  shelves,  ignorant  whether  it  might  not  be  aqua-fortis 
or  Prussic  acid. 

Armed,  then,  with  all  the  terrors  of  his  favorite  Spa, 
rich  in  a following  which  is  as  much  partisan  as  patient, 
the  Spa  doctor  has  an  admirable  life  of  it.  The  severe  and 
trying  cases  of  illness  that  come  under  the  notice  of  other 
physicians  fall  not  to  his  share;  the  very  journey  to  the 
waters  is  a trial  of  strength  which  guards  against  this. 
His  disciples  are  the  dyspeptic  diners  out  in  the  great 
worlds  of  London,  Paris,  or  Vienna;  the  nervous  and  irri- 
table natures,  cloyed  with  excess  of  enjoyment  and  palled 
with  pleasure;  the  imaginary  sick  man,  or  the  self-created 
patient  who  has  dosed  himself  into  artificial  malady,  — all  of 
necessity  belonging  to  the  higher  or  at  least  the  wealthier 


390 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


classes  of  mankind,  with  whom  management  goes  further 
than  medicine,  and  tact  is  a hundred  times  better  than  all 
the  skill  of  Hippocrates.  He  had  need,  then,  to  be  a 
clever  man  of  the  world;  he  may  dispense  with  science, 
he  cannot  with  savoir  faire.  Hot  only  must  he  be  conver- 
sant with  the  broader  traits  of  national  character,  but  he 
must  be  intimately  acquainted  with  the  more  delicate  and 
subtle  workings  of  the  heart  in  classes  and  gradations  of 
mankind,  a keen  observer  and  a quick  actor.  In  fact,  to 
get  on  well,  he  must  possess  in  a high  degree  many  of  those 
elements,  any  one  of  which  would  insure  success  in  a dozen 
other  walks  in  life. 

And  the  Spa  doctor  must  have  all  these  virtues,  as  Swift 
says,  “for  twenty  pounds  per  annum,”  — not  literally,  in- 
deed, but  for  a very  inadequate  recompense.  These  watering- 
place  seasons  are  brief  intervals,  in  which  he  must  make 
hay  while  the  sun  shines.  With  the  approach  of  winter  the 
tide  turns,  and  the  human  wave  retires  faster  than  it  came. 
Silent  streets  and  deserted  promenades,  closed  shutters 
and  hermetically-sealed  cafes,  meet  him  at  every  step; 
and  then  comes  the  long,  dreary  time  of  hibernation. 
Happy  would  it  be  for  him  if  he  could  but  imitate  the 
seal,  and  spend  it  in  torpor;  for  if  he  be  not  a sportsman, 
and  in  a country  favorable  to  the  pursuit,  his  life  is  a sad 
one.  Books  are  generally  difficult  to  come  at;  there  is 
little  society,  there  is  no  companionship;  and  so  he  has  to 
creep  along  the  tedious  time  silent  and  sad,  counting  over 
the  months  of  his  durance,  and  longing  for  spring.  Some 
there  are  who  follow  the  stream,  and  retire  each  winter  to 
the  cities  where  their  strongest  connection  lies;  but  this 
practice  I should  deem  rather  dictated  by  pleasure  than 
profit.  Your  Spa  doctor  without  a Spa  is  like  Liszt  or 
Herz  without  a pianoforte.  Give  him  but  his  instrument, 
and  he  will  “discourse  you  sweet  music;  ” but  deprive  him 
of  it,  and  he  is  utterly  helpless.  The  springs  of  Helicon 
did  not  suggest  inspiration  more  certainly  than  do  those 
of  Nassau  to  their  votaries;  but  the  fount  must  run  that 
the  poet  may  rhyme.  So  your  physician  must  have  the 
odor  of  sulphurets  in  his  nose;  he  must  seethe  priestess 
ministering,  glass  in  hand,  to  the  shivering  shades  around 


A WATERING-PLACE  DOCTOR. 


391 


her;  he  must  have  the  long  vista  of  the  promenade,  with 
its  Hitting  forms  in  flannel  cased,  ere  he  feel  himself 
“every  inch  a doctor.”  Away  from  these,  and  the  piston 
of  a steam-engine  without  a boiler  is  not  more  helpless. 
The  fountain  is,  to  use  Lord  Londonderry’s  phrase,  the 
“fundamental  feature  on  which  his  argument  hinges,”  and 
he  could  no  more  exist  without  water  than  a fish. 

Having  said  so  much  of  the  genus,  let  me  be  excused  if 
I do  not  dilate  on  the  species ; nor,  indeed,  had  I dwelt  so 
long  on  the  subject,  but  in  this  age  of  stomach,  when  every 
one  has  dyspepsia,  it  is  as  well  to  mention  those  who  rule 
over  our  diets  and  destinies ; and  where  so  many  are  wor- 
shippers at  the  Temple,  a word  about  the  Priest  of  the 
Mysteries  may  not  be  unseasonable. 

And  now,  to  change  the  theme,  who  is  it  that  at  this 
early  hour  of  the  morning  seems  taking  his  promenade, 
with  no  trace  of  the  invalid  in  his  look  or  dress?  He 
comes  along  at  a smart  walk;  his  step  has  the  assured 
tramp  of  one  who  felt  health,  and  knew  the  value  of  the 
blessing.  What!  is  it  possible, — can  it  be,  indeed?  Yes, 
it  is  Sir  Harry  Wycherley  himself,  with  two  lovely  chil- 
dren, a boy  and  a girl, — the  eldest  scarcely  seven  years  old; 
the  boy  a year  or  so  younger.  Never  did  I behold  any- 
thing more  lovely.  The  girl’s  eyes  were  dark,  shaded 
with  long  deep  fringe,  that  added  to  their  depth,  and  tem- 
pered into  softness  the  glowing  sparkle  of  youth.  Her 
features  were  of  a pensive  but  not  melancholy  character, 
and  in  her  walk  and  carriage  “gentle  blood”  spoke  out 
in  accents  not  to  be  mistaken.  The  boy,  more  strongly 
formed,  resembled  his  father  more,  and  in  his  broad  fore- 
head and  bold,  dashing  expression  looked  like  one  who 
would  become  one  day  a man  of  nerve  and  mettle.  His 
dress,  too,  gave  a character  to  his  appearance  that  well 
suited  him,  — a broad  hat,  turned  up  at  the  side,  and  orna- 
mented with  a dark-blue  feather,  that  hung  drooping  over 
his  shoulder;  a blue  tunic,  made  so  as  to  show  his  chest 
in  its  full  breadth,  and  his  arms  naked  the  whole  way;  a 
scarlet  scarf,  knotted  carelessly  at  his  side,  hanging  down 
with  its  deep  fringe  beside  his  bare  leg,  tanned  and  bronzed 
with  sun  and  weather;  and  even  his  shoes,  with  their  broad 


392 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


silver  buckles,  showing  that  care  presided  over  every  part 
of  his  costume. 

There  was  something  intensely  touching  in  the  sight  of 
this  man  of  the  world,  — for  such  I well  knew  he  was,  — thus 
enjoying  the  innocence  and  fresh  buoyancy  of  his  children, 
turning  from  the  complex  web  of  men’s  schemes  and  plot- 
tings, their  tortuous  paths  and  deep  designings,  to  relax 
in  the  careless  gayety  of  infant  minds.  Now  pursuing 
them  along  the  walk,  now  starting  from  behind  some  tree 
where  he  lay  in  ambush,  he  gives  them  chase,  and  as  he 
gains  on  them  they  turn  short  round,  and  spring  into  his 
arms,  and  clasp  him  round  the  neck. 

Arthur,  thou  hast  had  a life  of  more  than  man’s  share 
of  pleasure ; thou  hast  tasted  much  happiness,  and  known 
but  few  sorrows;  but  would  not  a moment  like  this  out- 
number them  all?  Where  is  love  so  full,  so  generous,  so 
confiding?  What  affection  comes  so  pure  and  unalloyed, 
not  chilled  by  jealous  doubts  or  fears,  but  warm  and  gush- 
ing, — the  incense  of  a happy  heart,  the  outpourings  of  a 
guileless  nature.  Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  than  the 
picture  of  maternal  fondness,  the  gracefulness  of  woman 
thrown  like  a garment  around  her  children.  Her  look  of 
love  etherealized  by  the  holiest  sentiment  of  tenderness; 
her  loveliness  exalted  above  the  earth  by  the  contempla- 
tion of  those,  her  own  dear  ones,  who  are  but  a “little 
lower  than  the  angels,”  — is  a sight  to  make  the  eyes  gush 
tears  of  happiness,  and  the  heart  swell  with  thankfulness 
to  Heaven.  Second  alone  to  this  is  the  unbending  of 
man’s  stern  nature  before  the  charms  of  childhood,  when, 
casting  away  the  pride  of  manhood  and  the  cold  spirit  of 
worldly  ambition,  he  becomes  like  one  among  his  children, 
the  participator  in  their  joys  and  sorrows,  the  companion 
of  their  games,  the  confidant  of  their  little  secrets.  How 
insensibly  does  each  moment  thus  passed  draw  him  further 
from  the  world  and  its  cares;  how  soon  does  he  forget  dis- 
appointments, or  learn  to  think  of  them  less  poignantly; 
and  how  by  Nature’s  own  magnetism  does  the  sinless 
spirit  of  the  child  mix  with  the  subtle  workings  of  the 
man,  and  lift  him  above  the  petty  jarrings  and  discords 
of  life!  And  thus,  while  he  teaches  them  precepts  of  truth 


A WATERING-PLACE  DOCTOR. 


393 


and  virtue,  the y pour  iuto  his  heart  lessons  of  humility  and 
forbearance.  If  he  point  out  the  future  to  them,  with 
equal  force  they  show  the  past  to  him,  and  a blessing 
rests  on  both.  The  populus  me  sibilat  of  the  miser  is  a 
miserable  philosophy  compared  to  his  who  can  retire  from 
the  rancorous  assaults  of  enemies  and  the  dark  treachery 
of  false  friends,  to  the  bosom  of  a happy  home,  and  feel 
his  hearth  a sanctuary  where  come  no  forms  of  malice  to 
assail  him! 

Such  were  my  musings  as  I saw  the  father  pass  on  with 
his  children ; and  never  before  did  my  loneliness  seem  so 
devoid  of  happiness. 

Would  that  I could  stop  here;  would  that  I might  leave 
my  reader  to  ponder  over  these  things,  and  fashion  them 
to  his  mind’s  liking;  but  I may  not.  I have  but  one 
object  in  these  notes  of  my  loiterings.  It  is  to  present 
to  those  younger  in  the  world,  and  fresher  to  its  wiles 
than  myself,  some  of  the  dangers  as  well  as  some  of  the 
enjoyments  of  foreign  travel;  and  having  surveyed  the 
coast  with  much  care  and  caution,  I would  fix  a wreck- 
buoy  here  and  there  along  the  channel  as  a warning  and  a 
guide.  And  now  to  begin. 

Let  me  take  the  character  before  me,  — one  of  whom  I 
hesitate  not  to  say  that  only  the  name  is  derived  from 
invention.  Some  may  have  already  identified  him;  many 
more  may  surmise  the  individual  meant.  It  is  enough 
that  I say  he  still  lives,  and  the  correctness  of  the  por- 
trait may  easily  be  tested  by  any  traveller  Rliine-wards ; 
but  I prefer  giving  him  a chapter  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


SIR  HARRY  WYCHERLEY. 

Sir  Harry  Wycherley  was  of  an  old  Hampshire 
family,  who,  entering  the  army  when  a mere  boy,  con- 
trived, before  he  came  of  age,  so  completely  to  encumber 
a very  large  estate  that  his  majority  only  enabled  him  to 
finish  the  ruin  he  had  so  actively  begun,  and  leave  him 
penniless  at  seven-and-twenty.  Before  the  wreck  of  his 
property  became  matter  of  notoriety,  he  married  an  earl’s 
daughter  with  a vast  fortune,  a portion  of  which  was  set- 
tled on  any  children  that  might  be  born  to  their  union. 
She,  poor  girl,  scarcely  nineteen  when  she  married  (for 
it  was  a love  match),  died  of  a broken  heart  at  three-and- 
twenty,  — leaving  Sir  Harry,  with  two  infant  children,  all 
but  irretrievably  ruined,  nearly  everything  he  possessed 
mortgaged  beyond  its  value,  and  not  even  a house  to  shel- 
ter him.  By  the  advice  of  his  lawyer,  he  left  England 
secretly  and  came  over  to  Paris,  whence  he  travelled 
through  Germany  down  to  Italy,  where  he  resided  some 
time.  The  interest  of  the  fortune  settled  on  the  children 
sufficed  to  maintain  him  in  good  style,  and  enabled  him  to 
associate  with  men  of  his  own  rank,  provided  he  incurred 
no  habits  of  extravagance.  A few  years  of  such  prudence 
would,  he  was  told,  enable  him  to  return  with  a moderate 
income;  and  he  submitted. 

This  career  of  quiet,  unobtrusive  character  was  gradually 
becoming  more  and  more  insupportable  to  him.  At  first 
the  change  from  a life  beset  by  duns  and  bailiffs,  by  daily 
interviews  with  Jews  and  consultations  with  scheming  law- 
yers, was  happiness  itself;  the  freedom  he  enjoyed  from 
pressing  difficulties  and  contingencies  which  arose  with 
every  hour  was  a pleasure  he  never  knew  before,  and  he 
felt  like  a schoolboy  escaped  from  the  drudgery  of  the  desk. 
But  by  degrees,  as  he  mixed  more  with  those  who  were  his 


SIR  HARRY  WYCHERLEY. 


395 


former  associates  and  companions,  — many  of  them  exiles 
on  the  same  plea  as  himself,  — the  old  taste  for  past  pleas- 
ures revived.  Their  conversation  brought  back  London 
with  all  its  brilliant  gayety  before  him.  Its  clubs  and 
coteries,  the  luxurious  display  of  the  dinners  at  the  Clar- 
endon or  the  reckless  extravagance  of  the  nights  at  Crock- 
ford’s,  the  triumphs  of  the  Derby  and  the  glories  of  Ascot, 
passed  all  in  review  before  him,  heightened  by  the  recol- 
lection of  the  high  spirits  of  his  youth.  He  began  once 
more  to  hanker  after  the  world  he  believed  he  had  quitted 
without  regret;  and  a morbid  anxiety  to  learn  what  was 
doing  and  going  forward  in  the  circles  he  used  to  move  in, 
took  possession  of  his  mind.  All  the  gossip  of  Tattersall’s, 
all  the  chit-chat  of  the  Carlton,  all  the  scandal  of  Graham’s, 
became  at  once  indispensable  to  his  existence.  Who  was 
going  it  “fastest”  among  the  rising  spirits  of  the  day,  and 
which  was  the  favorite  of  “Scott’s  lot,”  were  points  of  vital 
interest  to  him;  while  he  felt  the  deepest  anxiety  about 
the  fortunes  of  those  who  were  tottering  on  the  brink  of 
ruin,  and  spent  many  a sleepless  night  in  conjectures  as 
to  how  they  were  to  get  through  this  difficulty  or  that,  and 
whether  they  could  ever  “come  round”  again. 

Not  one  of  the  actors  in  that  busy  scene,  into  whose  wild 
chaos  fate  mixes  up  all  that  is  highest  and  everything  the 
most  depraved  of  human  nature,  ever  took  the  same  inter- 
est in  it  as  he  did.  He  lived  henceforth  in  an  ideal  world, 
ignorant  and  careless  of  what  was  passing  around  him;  his 
faculties  strained  to  regard  events  at  a distance,  he  became 
abstracted  and  silent.  A year  passed  over  thus,  twelve 
weary  months,  in  which  his  mind  dwelt  on  home  and 
country  with  all  the  ardor  of  a banished  man.  At  last 
the  glad  tidings  reached  him  that  a compromise  had  been 
effected  with  his  principal  creditors;  his  most  pressing 
debts  had  been  discharged,  and  time  obtained  to  meet 
others  of  less  moment;  and  no  obstacle  any  longer  existed 
to  his  returning  to  England. 

What  a glorious  thing  it  was  to  come  back  again  once 
more  to  the  old  haunts  and  scenes  of  pleasure;  to  revisit 
the  places  of  which  his  days  and  nights  were  filled  with 
the  very  memory ; to  be  once  again  the  distinguished 


396 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


among  that  crowd  who  ruled  supreme  at  the  table  and 
on  the  turf,  and  whose  fiat  was  decisive  from  the  Italian 
Opera  to  Doncaster!  Alas  and  alas!  the  resumption  of 
old  tastes  and  habits  will  not  bring  back  the  youth  and 
buoyancy  which  gave  them  all  their  bright  coloring. 
There  is  no  standing  still  in  life;  there  is  no  resting- 
place  whence  we  can  survey  the  panorama,  and  not  move 
along  with  it.  Our  course  continues,  and  as  changes  fol- 
low one  another  in  succession  without,  so  within  our  own 
natures  are  we  conforming  to  the  rule,  and  becoming  differ- 
ent from  what  we  had  been.  The  dream  of  home,  the  ever- 
present thought  to  the  exile’s  mind,  suffers  the  rude  shock 
when  comes  the  hour  of  testing  its  reality;  happy  for  him 
if  he  die  in  the  delusion!  Early  remembrances  are  hal- 
lowed by  a light  that  age  and  experience  dissipate  forever, 
and  as  the  highland  tarn  we  used  to  think  grand  in  its  wild 
desolation  in  the  hours  of  our  boyhood  becomes  to  our  man- 
hood’s eye  but  a mere  pond  among  the  mountains,  so  do  we 
look  with  changed  feelings  on  all  about  us,  and  feel  disap- 
pointment where  we  expected  pleasure. 

In  all  great  cities  these  changes  succeed  with  fearful 
rapidity.  Expensive  tastes  and  extravagant  habits  are 
hourly  ruining  hundreds  who  pass  off  the  scene  where 
they  shone  and  are  heard  of  no  more.  The  “lion”  of  the 
season,  — whose  plate  was  a matter  of  royal  curiosity, 
whose  equipage  gave  the  tone  to  the  time,  whose  dinner 
invitations  were  regarded  as  the  climax  of  fashionable 
distinction, — awakes  some  morning  to  discover  that  an 
expenditure  of  four  times  a man’s  income,  continued  for 
several  years,  may  originate  embarrassment  in  his  affairs. 
He  finds  out  that  tailors  can  be  uncivil,  and  coachmakers 
rude;  and  — horror  of  horrors!  — lie  sees  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  his  dressing-room  the  plebeian  visage  of  a sher- 
iff’s officer,  or  the  calculating  countenance  of  a West-End 
auctioneer. 

He  who  was  booked  for  Ascot  now  hurries  away  to 
Antwerp.  An  ambiguous  paragraph  in  an  evening  paper 
informs  London  that  one  among  the  ranks  of  extravagance 
has  fallen ; a notice  of  “ public  competition  ” by  the  hand 
of  George  Robins  comes  next;  a criticism,  and  generally  a 


SIR  HARRY  WYCHERLEY. 


397 


sharp  one,  on  the  taste  of  his  furniture  and  the  value  of 
his  pictures  follows;  the  broad  pages  of  the  “Morning 
Post”  become  the  winding-sheet  of  his  memory,  and  the 
knock  of  the  auctioneer’s  hammer  is  his  requiem!  The 
ink  is  not  dried  on  his  passport  ere  he  is  forgotten.  Fash- 
ionable circles  have  other  occupations  than  regrets  and  con- 
dolences; so  that  the  exile  may  be  a proud  man  if  he  retain 
a single  correspondent  in  that  great  world  which  yesterday 
found  nothing  better  than  to  chronicle  his  doings. 

When  Sir  Harry  Wycherley  then  came  back  to  London 
he  was  only  remembered, — nothing  more.  The  great 
majority  of  his  contemporaries  had,  like  himself,  passed 
off  the  boards  during  the  interval;  such  of  them  as 
remained  were  either  like  vessels  too  crippled  in  action 
to  seek  safety  in  flight,  or,  adopting  the  philosophy  of  the 
devil  when  sick,  had  resolved  on  prudence  when  there  was 
no  more  liking  for  dissipation.  He  was  almost  a stranger 
in  his  club;  the  very  waiters  at  Mivart’s  asked  his  name; 
while  the  last  new  peer’s  son,  just  emerging  into  life,  had 
never  even  heard  of  him  before.  So  is  it  decreed,  — 
dynasties  shall  fall  and  others  succeed  them;  Charles  le 
Dix  gives  place  to  Louis  Philippe,  and  Nugee  occupies  the 
throne  of  Stultz. 

Few  things  men  bear  worse  than  this  oblivion  in  the 
very  places  where  once  their  sway  was  absolute.  It  is 
very  hard  to  believe  that  the  world  has  grown  wiser  and 
better,  more  cultivated  in  taste  and  more  correct  in  its 
judgments  than  when  we  knew  it  of  old;  and  a man  is 
very  likely  to  tax  with  ingratitude  those  who,  superseding 
him  in  the  world’s  favor,  seem  to  be  forgetful  of  claims 
which  in  reality  they  never  knew  of. 

Sir  Harry  Wycherley  was  not  long  in  England  ere  he 
felt  these  truths  in  all  their  bitterness,  and  saw  that  an 
absence  of  a few  years  teaches  one’s  friends  to  do  without 
them  so  completely  that  they  are  absolutely  unwilling  to 
open  a new  want  of  acquaintance,  as  though  it  were  an 
expensive  luxury  they  had  learned  to  dispense  with.  Be- 
sides, Wycherley  was  decidedly  rococo  in  all  his  tastes  and 
predilections.  Men  did  not  dine  now  where  they  used  in 
his  day,  — Doncaster  was  going  out,  Goodwood  was  coming 


398 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


in;  people  spoke  of  Grisi,  not  Pasta,  Mario  more  than 
Rubini.  Instead  of  the  old  absolute  monarchy  of  fashion, 
where  one  dictated  to  all  the  rest,  a new  school  sprung  up, 
a species  of  democracy,  who  thought  Long  Wellesley  and 
D’ Or  say  were  unclean  idols,  and  would  not  worship  any- 
thing save  themselves. 

Now  of  all  the  marks  of  progress  which  distinguish  men 
in  the  higher  circles,  there  is  none  in  these  latter  days  at 
all  comparable  with  the  signs  of  — to  give  it  a mild  name 
— increased  “sharpness,”  distinguishable  amongst  them. 
The  traveller  by  the  heavy  Falmouth  mail  whisked  along 
forty  miles  per  hour  in  the  Grand  Junction  would  see  far 
less  to  astonish  and  amaze  him  than  your  shrewd  man 
about  town  of  some  forty  years  back,  could  he  be  let  down 
any  evening  among  the  youth  at  Tattersall’s,  or  introduced 
among  the  rising  generation  just  graduating  at  Graham’s. 

The  spirit  of  the  age  is  unquestionably  to  be  “up  and 
doing.”  A good  book  on  the  Oaks  has  a far  higher  pre- 
eminence, not  to  say  profit,  than  one  published  in  “the 
Row ; ” the  “ honors  ” of  the  crown  are  scarcely  on  a par 
with  those  scored  at  whist;  and  to  predict  the  first  horse 
in  at  Ascot  would  be  a far  higher  step  in  the  intellectual 
scale  than  to  prophesy  the  appearance  of  a comet  or  an 
eclipse;  the  leader  in  the  House  can  only  divide  public 
applause  with  the  winner  of  the  Leger,  and  even  the  ver- 
satile gyrations  of  Lord  Brougham  himself  must  yield  to 
the  more  fascinating  pirouettes  of  Fanny  Ellsler.  Young 
men  leave  Eton  and  Sandhurst  now  with  more  tact  and 
worldly  wit  than  their  fathers  had  at  forty,  or  their  grand- 
fathers ever  possessed  at  all. 

Short  as  Sir  Harry  Wycherley’s  absence  had  been,  the 
march  of  mind  had  done  much  in  all  these  respects.  The 
babes  and  sucklings  of  fashion  were  more  than  his  equals 
in  craft  and  subtlety;  none  like  them,  to  ascertain  what  was 
wrong  with  the  favorite,  or  why  the  “mare”  would  not 
start;  few  could  compete  with  them  in  those  difficult  walks 
of  finance  which  consist  in  obtaining  credit  from  coach- 
makers,  and  cash  from  Jews.  In  fact,  to  that  generation 
who  spent  profusely  to  live  luxuriously  had  succeeded  a 
race  who  reversed  the  position,  and  lived  extravagantly  in 


SIR  HARRY  WYCHERLEY. 


390 


order  to  have  the  means  of  spending.  Wiser  than  their 
fathers,  they  substituted  paper  for  cash  payments,  and  saw 
no  necessity  to  cry  “stop”  while  there  was  a stamp  in 
England. 

It  was  a sad  thing  for  one  who  believed  his  education 
finished  to  become  a schoolboy  once  more,  but  there  was 
nothing  else  for  it.  Sir  Harry  had  to  begin  at  the  bottom 
of  the  class;  he  was  an  apt  scholar  it  is  true,  but  before 
he  had  completed  his  studies  he  was  ruined.  High  play 
and  high  interest,  Jews  and  jockeys,  dinners  and  danseuses, 
with  large  retinues  of  servants,  will  help  a man  consider- 
ably to  get  rid  of  his  spare  cash;  and  however  he  may  — 
which  in  most  cases  he  must  — acquire  some  wisdom  en 
route,  his  road  is  not  less  certain  to  lead  to  ruin.  In  two 
years  from  the  time  of  his  return,  another  paragraph  and 
another  auction  proclaimed  that  “Wycherley  was  cleaned 
out,”  and  that  he  had  made  his  “positively  last  appear- 
ance ” in  England. 

The  Continent  was  now  to  be  his  home  for  life.  He  had 
lost  his  “means,”  but  he  had  learned  “ways”  of  living, 
and  from  pigeon  he  became  rook. 

There  is  a class,  possibly  the  most  dangerous  that  exists, 
of  men,  who  without  having  gone  so  far  as  to  forfeit  pre- 
tension to  the  society  and  acquaintance  of  gentlemen,  have 
yet  involved  their  name  and  reputation  in  circumstances 
which  are  more  than  suspicious.  Living  expensively,  with- 
out any  obvious  source  of  income;  enjoying  every  luxury, 
and  indulging  every  taste  that  costs  dearly,  without  any 
difficulty  in  the  payment,  their  intimacy  with  known  gam- 
blers and  blacklegs  exposes  them  at  once  to  the  inevitable 
charge  of  confederacy.  .Rarely  or  never  playing  them- 
selves, however,  they  reply  to  such  calumnies  by  refer- 
ring to  their  habits;  their  daily  life  would  indeed  seem 
little  liable  to  reproval.  If  married,  they  are  the  most 
exemplary  of  husbands.  If  they  have  children,  they  are 
models  for  fathers.  Where  can  you  see  such  little  ones, 
so  well-mannered,  so  well-dressed,  with  such  beautifully 
curled  hair,  and  such  perfectly  good  breeding,  — or,  to  use 
the  proper  phrase,  “so  admirably  taken  care  of”?  They 
are  liberal  to  all  public  charities;  they  are  occasionally 


400 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


intimate  with  the  chaplain  of  the  Embassy  too, — of 
whom,  a word  hereafter;  and,  in  fact,  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  fault  with  any  circumstance  in  their  bearing 
before  the  world.  Their  connection  by  family  with  per- 
sons of  rank  and  condition  is  a kind  of  life-buoy  of  which 
no  shipwreck  of  fortune  deprives  them,  and  long  after  less 
well-known  people  have  sunk  to  the  bottom,  they  are  to  be 
found  floating  on  the  surface  of  society.  In  this  way  they 
form  a kind  of  “Pont  de  Diable”  between  persons  of  char- 
acter and  persons  of  none,  — they  are  the  narrow  isthmus, 
connecting  the  main-land  with  the  low  reef  of  rocks 
beyond  it. 

These  men  are  the  tame  elephants  of  the  swindling 
world,  who  provide  the  game,  though  they  never  seem  to 
care  for  the  sport.  Too  cautious  of  reputation  to  become 
active  agents  in  these  transactions,  they  introduce  the 
unsuspecting  traveller  into  those  haunts  and  among  those 
where  ruin  is  rife ; and  as  the  sheriff  consigns  the  criminal 
to  the  attentions  of  the  hangman,  so  these  worthies  halt  at 
the  “drop,”  and  would  scorn  with  indignation  the  idea  of 
exercising  the  last  office  of  the  law. 

Far  from  this,  they  are  eloquent  in  their  denunciations 
of  play.  Such  sound  morality  as  theirs  cannot  be  pur- 
chased at  any  price;  the  dangers  that  beset  young  men 
coming  abroad  — the  risk  of  chance  acquaintance,  the  folly 
of  associating  with  persons  not  known  — form  the  staple 
of  their  converse,  — which,  lest  it  should  seem  too  cynical 
in  its  attack  on  pleasure,  is  relieved  by  that  admirable 
statement  so  popular  in  certain  circles.  “You  know  a 
man  of  the  world  must  see  everything  for  himself,  so  that 
though  I say  don’t  gamble,  I never  said  don’t  frequent  the 
Cursaal;  though  I bade  you  avoid  play,  I did  not  say  shun 
blacklegs.”  It  is  pretty  much  like  desiring  a man  not  to 
take  the  yellow  fever,  but  to  be  sure  to  pass  an  autumn  on 
the  coast  of  Africa! 

Such,  then,  was  the  character  of  him  who  would  once 
have  rejected  with  horror  the  acquaintance  of  one  like 
himself.  A sleeping  partner  in  swindling,  he  received  his 
share  of  the  profits,  although  his  name  did  not  appear  in 
the  firm.  Ilis  former  acquaintances  continued  to  know 


SIR  IIARRY  WYCHERLEY. 


401 


him,  his  family  connections  were  large  and  influential, 
and  though  some  may  have  divined  his  practices,  he  was 
one  of  those  men  that  are  never  “cut.”  Some  pitied  him; 
some  affected  to  disbelieve  all  the  stories  against  him; 
some  told  tales  of  his  generosity  and  kindness,  but  scarcely 
any  one  condemned  him,  — “Ainsi  va  le  monde?” 

Once  more  I ask  forgiveness,  if  I have  been  too  prolix 
in  all  this;  rather  would  I have  you  linger  in  pleasanter 
scenes,  and  with  better  company,  but  — there  must  always 
be  a “ but  ” — he  is  only  a sorry  pilot  who  would  content 
himself  with  describing  the  scenery  of  the  coast,  and  expa- 
tiating on  the  beauty  of  the  valleys  and  the  boldness  of  the 
headlands,  while  he  let  the  vessel  take  her  course  among 
reefs  and  rocks,  and  risk  a shipwreck,  while  he  amused  the 
passengers.  Adieu,  then,  to  Spas  and  their  visitors;  the 
sick  are  seldom  the  pleasantest  company;  the  healthy  at 
such  places  are  rarely  the  safest. 

“You  are  going,  Mr.  O’Leary?”  said  a voice  from  a 
window  opposite  the  hotel,  as  my  luggage  was  lifted  into 
a fiacre.  I looked  up.  It  was  the  youth  who  had  lost  so 
deeply  at  the  Cursaal. 

“Only  to  Coblentz,  for  a few  days,”  said  I;  “I  am  weary 
of  gayety  and  fine  people.  I wish  for  quiet  just  now.” 

“I  would  that  I had  gone  some  weeks  ago,”  exclaimed  he, 
with  a sigh.  “May  I wralk  with  you  as  far  as  the  river?  ” 

I assented  with  pleasure,  and  in  a moment  after  he  "was 
by  my  side. 

“I  trust,”  said  I,  when  we  had  -walked  together  some 
time,  — “I  trust  you  have  not  been  to  the  Cursaal  again? ” 
“Never  since  I met  you;  that  night  was  the  last  I ever 
passed  there!”  He  paused  for  some  minutes,  and  then 
added,  “You  were  not  acquainted  with  either  of  the  gen- 
tlemen in  whose  company  we  supped,  — I think  you  told 
me  so  on  the  way  home?  ” 

“No,  they  were  both  strangers  to  me;  it  was  a chance 
rencontre,  and  in  the  few  weeks  I passed  at  Wiesbaden  I 
learned  enough  not  to  pursue  the  acquaintance  further. 
Indeed,  to  do  them  justice,  they  seemed  as  wrell  disposed 
as  myself  to  drop  the  intimacy;  I seldom  play,  never 
among  strangers.” 


26 


402 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“All,”  said  he,  in  an  accent  of  some  bitterness,  “that 
resolve  would  avail  you  little  with  them ; they  can  win 
without  playing  for  it.” 

“ How  so ; what  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“Have  you  a mind  for  a short  story?  It  is  my  own 
adventure,  and  I can  vouch  for  the  truth.”  I assented, 
and  he  went  on : — 

“About  a vreek  ago,  Mr.  Crotty,  with  two  others,  one  of 
whom  was  called  Captain  Jacob,  came  to  invite  me  to  a 
little  excursion  to  Kreutznach.  They  were  to  go  one  day 
and  return  the  following  one.  Sir  Harry  was  to  join  the 
party  also,  and  they  spoke  of  Lord  Edderdale  and  some 
others.  But  Wycherley  only  came  down  to  the  steamboat, 
when  a messenger  arrived  with  a pressing  letter,  recalling 
him  to  Wiesbaden,  and  the  rest  never  appeared.  Away 
we  went,  however,  in  good  spirits;  the  day  was  fine,  and 
the  sail  down  the  Rhine,  as  you  know,  delightful.  We 
arrived  at  Kreutznach  to  dinner,  spent  the  evening  in 
wandering  about  the  pretty  scenery,  and  came  back  by 
moonlight  to  a late  supper.  As  usual  with  them,  cards 
were  produced  after  supper,  but  I had  never  touched  a 
card,  nor  made  a bet,  since  my  unlucky  night  at  the  Cur- 
saal;  so  I merely  sat  by  the  table  and  looked  on  at  the 
game,  — of  course  taking  that  interest  in  it  a man  fond  of 
play  cannot  divest  himself  of,  but  neither  counselling  any 
party  nor  offering  a bet  to  either  side.  The  game  grad- 
ually became  interesting,  deeply  so,  as  well  from  the  skill 
of  the  players  as  the  high  stakes  they  played  for.  Large 
sums  of  money  changed  owners,  and  heavy  scores  were 
betted  besides.  Meanwhile,  champagne  was  called  for, 
and  as  the  night  wore  on  a bowl  of  smoking  bishop, 
spiced  and  seasoned  to  perfection.  My  office  was  to  fill 
the  glasses  of  the  party,  and  drink  toast  with  each  of  them 
in  succession,  as  luck  inclined  to  this  side  or  that. 

“The  excitement  of  play  needs  not  wine  to  make  it 
near  to  madness;  but  with  it  no  mania  is  more  complete. 
Although  but  a looker-on,  my  attention  was  bent  on  the 
game;  and  what  with  the  odorous  bowl  of  bishop,  and 
the  long-sustained  interest,  the  fatigue  of  a day  more  than 
usually  laborious,  and  a constitution  never  strong,  I be- 


Sill  HARRY  WYCHERLEY. 


403 


came  so  heavy  that  I threw  myself  upon  a sofa,  and  fell 
fast  asleep. 

“ How  1 reached  my  bed  and  became  undressed,  I never 
knew  since;  but  by  noon  the  next  day  1 was  awakened 
from  a deep  slumber,  and  saw  Jacob  beside  me. 

Well,  old  fellow,  you  take  it  coolly,’  said  he,  laugh- 
ing; ‘ you  don’t  know  it ’s  past  twelve  o’clock.’ 

“‘Indeed!’  said  I,  starting  up,  and  scarce  remember- 
ing where  I was.  ‘ The  fact  is,  my  wits  are  none  of  the 
clearest  this  morning,  — that  bowl  of  bishop  finished  me.’ 
“‘Did  it,  by  Jove?’  replied  he,  with  a half  saucy 
laugh;  ‘I’ll  wager  a pony,  notwithstanding,  that  you 
never  played  better  in  your  life.’ 

“ ‘ Played ! why,  I never  touched  a card,  ’ said  I,  in 
horror  and  amazement. 

“‘  I wish  you  hadn’t,  that’s  all,’  said  he,  while  he  took 
a pocket-book  from  his  pocket,  and  proceeded  to  open  it  on 
the  bed.  ‘If  you  hadn’t,  I should  have  been  somewhat 
of  a richer  man  this  morning.’ 

“ ‘ I can  only  tell  you,  ’ said  I,  as  I rubbed  my  eyes,  and 
endeavored  to  waken  up  more  completely,  — ‘ I can  only 
tell  you  that  I don’t  remember  anything  of  what  you 
allude  to,  nor  can  I believe  that  I would  have  broken  a 
firm  resolve  I made  against  play  — ’ 

“‘  Gently,  sir,  gently,’  said  he,  in  a low,  smooth  voice; 
‘be  a little  careful,  I beseech  you;  what  you  have  just 
said  amounts  to  something  very  like  a direct  contradiction 
of  my  words.  Please  to  remember,  sir,  that  we  were 
strangers  to  each  other  yesterday  morning.  Put  to  be 
brief,  was  your  last  bet  a double  or  quit,  or  only  a ten- 
pound  note,  for  on  that  depends  whether  I owe  you  two 
hundred  and  sixty,  or  two  hundred  and  seventy  pounds? 
Can  you  set  me  right  on  that  point,  — they  made  such  a 
noise  at  the  time,  I can’t  be  clear  about  it.’ 

“‘  I protest,  sir,’  said  I,  once  more,  ‘ this  is  all  a dream 
to  me ; as  I have  told  you  already,  I never  played  — ’ 

“‘  You  never  played,  sir?  ’ 

“ ‘ I mean,  I never  knew  I played,  or  I have  no  remem- 
brance of  it  now.’ 

“‘  Well,  young  gentleman,  fortune  treats  you  better  when 


404 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


asleep  than  she  does  me  with  my  eyes  open,  and  as  I have 
no  time  to  lose,  for  I leave  for  Bingen  in  half  an  hour,  I 
have  only  to  say,  here  is  your  money.  You  may  forget 
what  you  have  won;  I have  also  an  obligation,  but  a 
stronger  one,  to  remember  what  I have  lost;  and  as  for 
the  ten  pounds,  shall  we  say  head  or  tail  for  it,  as  we 
neither  of  us  are  quite  clear  about  it?  ’ 

“‘  Say  anything  you  like,  for  1 firmly  believe  one  or  the 
other  of  us  must  be  out  of  our  reason.’ 

“ ‘ What  do  you  say,  sir,  — head  or  tail?  ’ 

“‘  Head!  ’ cried  I,  in  a frenzy;  ‘ there  ought  to  be  one  in 
the  party.’ 

“‘  Won  again,  by  Jove!  ’ said  he,  opening  his  hand;  ‘ I 
think  you’ll  find  that  rouleau  correct;  and  now,  sir,  au 
revoir.  I shall  have  my  revenge  one  of  these  days.’ 

“He  shook  my  hand  and  went  out,  leaving  me  sitting  up 
in  the  bed,  trying  to  remember  some  one  circumstance  of 
the  previous  night,  by  which  I could  recall  my  joining  the 
play -table.  But  nothing  of  the  kind;  a thick  haze  was 
over  everything,  through  which  I could  merely  recollect  the 
spicy  bishop,  and  my  continued  efforts  to  keep  their  glasses 
filled.  There  I sat,  puzzled  and  confused,  the  bed  covered 
with  bank-notes,  which  after  all  have  some  confounded 
magic  in  their  faces  that  makes  our  acceptance  of  them  a 
matter  of  far  less  repugnance  than  it  ought.  While  I 
counted  over  my  gains,  stopping  every  instant  to  think 
on  the  strange  caprices  of  fortune,  that  would  n’t  afford  me 
the  gambler’s  pleasure  of  winning,  while  enriching  me 
with  gain,  the  door  opened,  and  in  came  Crotty. 

Not  up  yet!  why,  we  start  in  ten  minutes;  didn’t  the 
waiter  call  you?  ’ 

“‘No.  I am  in  a state  of  bewilderment  this  whole 
morning — ’ 

“‘  Well,  well,  get  clear  of  it  for  a few  seconds,  I advise 
you,  and  let  us  settle  scores  — ’ 

“‘What!’  cried  I,  laughing,  ‘have  I won  from  you 
also?  ’ 

“‘No,  by  Jove,  it’s  the  other  way.  You  pushed  me 
rather  sharply  though,  and  if  I had  taken  all  your  bets 
I should  have  made  a good  thing  of  it.  As  it  is,’ — here 


SIR  IIARRY  WYCHERLEY. 


405 


he  opened  a memorandum-book  and  read  out,  — ‘as  it  is,  I 
have  only  won  seven  hundred  and  twenty,  and  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty-eight, — nine  hundred  and  seventy -eight,  I 
believe;  does  not  that  make  it?  ’ 

“I  shivered  like  one  in  the  ague,  and  couldn’t  speak  a 
word. 

Has  Jacob  booked  up?  ’ asked  Crotty. 

“‘Yes,’  said  I,  pointing  to  the  notes  on  the  bed,  that 
now  looked  like  a brood  of  rattlesnakes  to  my  eyes. 

“ ‘ All  right,’  continued  he,  ‘Jacob  is  a most  punctilious 
fellow,  — foolishly  so,  indeed,  among  friends.  Well,  what 
are  we  to  say  about  this,  — are  you  strong  in  cash  just 
now?  ’ 

“‘  No,’  stammered  I,  with  a sigh. 

“‘  Well,  never  mind,  — a short  bill  for  the  balance;  I ’ll 
take  what ’s  here  in  part  payment,  and  don’t  let  the  thing 
give  you  any  inconvenience.’ 

“This  was  done  in  a good  off-hand  way.  I signed  the 
bill  which  he  drew  up  in  due  form.  He  had  a dozen 
stamps  ready  in  his  pocket-book.  He  rolled  up  the  bank- 
notes carelessty,  stuffed  them  into  his  coat-pocket,  and 
with  a most  affectionate  hope  of  seeing  me  next  day  at 
Wiesbaden,  left  the  room. 

“ The  bill  is  paid,  — I released  it  in  less  than  a week. 
My  trip  to  Kreutznach  just  cost  me  seven  hundred  pounds, 
and  I may  be  pardoned  if  I never  like  ‘ bishop  ’ for  the  rest 
of  my  life  after.” 

“I  should  not  wonder  if  you  became  a Presbyterian 
to-morrow,”  said  I,  endeavoring  to  encourage  his  own 
effort  at  good  humor;  “but  here  we  are  at  the  Rhine. 
Good-by;  I needn’t  warn  you  about  — ” 

“Not  a word,  I beseech  you;  I’ll  never  close  my  eyes 
as  long  as  I live  without  a double  lock  on  the  door  of  my 
bed-room.” 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


THE  RECOVERY  HOUSE. 

Frankfort  is  a German  Liverpool,  minus  the  shipping, 
and  consequently  has  few  attractions  for  the  mere  traveller. 
The  statue  of  Ariadne,  by  the  Danish  sculptor  Danneker, 
is  almost  its  only  great  work  of  art.  There  are  some,  not 
first-rate,  pictures  in  the  Gallery  and  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
and  the  Town  Library  possesses  a few  Protestant  relics,  — 
among  others,  a pair  of  Luther’s  slippers. 

There  is,  however,  little  to  delay  a wanderer  within  the 
walls  of  the  Frey  Stadt,  if  he  have  no  peculiar  sympathy 
with  the  Jews  and  money-changers.  The  whole  place 
smacks  of  trade  and  traders,  and  seems  far  prouder  of 
being  the  native  city  of  Rothschild  than  the  birthplace  of 
Goethe. 

The  happy  indolence  of  a foreign  city,  the  easy  enjoy- 
ment of  life  so  conspicuous  in  most  continental  towns, 
exists  not  here.  All  is  activity,  haste,  and  bustle.  The 
tables  d’hote  are  crowded  to  excess  by  eager  individuals 
eating  away  against  time,  and  anxious  to  get  back  once 
more  to  the  Exchange  or  the  counting-house.  There  is  a 
Yankee  abruptness  in  the  manners  of  the  men,  who  reply 
to  you  as  though  information  were  a thing  not  to  be  had 
for  nothing;  and  as  for  the  women,  like  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  all  commercial  communities,  they  are  showy 
dressers  and  poor  conversers,  wear  the  finest  clothes  and 
inhabit  the  most  magnificent  houses,  but  scarcely  become 
the  one  and  don’t  know  how  to  live  in  the  other. 

I certainly  should  not  like  to  pitch  my  tent  in  Frankfort, 
even  as  successor  to  the  great  Munch  Bellinghausen  him- 
self— Heaven  grant  I may  have  given  him  all  his  conso- 
nants ! — the  President  of  the  Diet.  And  yet  to  the  people 
themselves  few  places  take  such  rooted  hold  on  the  feel- 
ings of  the  inhabitants  as  trading  cities.  Talk  of  the 
attachment  of  a Swiss  or  a Tyrolese  to  his  native  moun- 


THE  RECOVERY  HOUSE. 


407 


tains,  — the  dweller  in  Fleet  Street  or  the  Iloch  Gasse  will 
beat  him  hollow.  The  daily  occupations  of  city  life,  fill- 
ing up  every  nook  and  crevice  of  the  human  mind,  leave  no 
room  for  any  thought  or  wish  beyond  them.  Hence  arises 
that  insufferable  air  of  self-satisfaction,  that  contented  self- 
sufficiency,  so  observable  in  your  genuine  cockney.  Lead- 
enhall  Street  is  to  his  notion  the  touchstone  of  mankind, 
and  a character  on  ’Change  the  greatest  test  of  moral 
worth.  Hamburg  or  Frankfort,  Glasgow  or  Manchester, 
New  York  or  Bristol,  it  is  all  the  same;  your  men  of 
sugar  and  sassafras,  of  hides,  tallow,  and  train-oil,  are  a 
class  in  which  nationality  makes  little  change.  No  men 
enjoy  life  more,  few  fear  death  as  much.  This  is  truly 
strange!  Any  ordinary  mind  would  suppose  that  the  com- 
mon period  of  human  life  spent  in  such  occupations  as 
Frankfort,  for  instance,  affords  would  have  little  desire 
for  longevity, — that,  in  short,  a man,  let  him  be  ever 
such  a glutton  of  Cocker,  would  have  had  enough  of  deci- 
mal fractions  and  compound  interest  after  fifty  years ; and 
that  he  could  lay  down  the  pen  without  a sigh,  and  even 
for  the  sake  of  a little  relaxation  be  glad  to  go  into  the 
next  world.  Nothing  of  the  kind;  your  Frankforter  hates 
dying  above  all  things.  The  hardy  peasant  who  sees  the 
sun  rise  from  his  native  mountains,  and  beholds  him  set- 
ting over  a glorious  landscape  of  wood  and  glen,  of  field 
and  valley,  can  leave  the  bright  world  with  fewer  regrets 
than  your  denizen  of  some  dark  alley  or  some  smoke-dried 
street  in  a great  metropolis.  The  love  of  life  — it  may  be 
axiomized  — is  in  the  direct  ratio  of  its  artificiality.  The 
more  men  shut  out  Nature  from  their  hearts  and  homes, 
and  surround  themselves  with  the  hundred  little  appli- 
ances of  a factitious  existence,  the  more  do  they  become 
attached  to  the  world.  The  very  changes  of  flood  and 
field  suggest  the  thought  of  a hereafter  to  him  who  dwells 
among  them;  the  falling  leaf,  the  withered  branch,  the 
mouldering  decay  of  vegetation,  bear  lessons  there  is  no 
mistaking;  and  the  mind  thus  familiarized  learns  to  look 
forward  to  the  great  event  as  the  inevitable  course  of  that 
law  by  which  he  lives  and  breathes,  — while  to  others, 
again,  the  speculations  which  grow  out  of  the  contemplation 
of  Nature’s  great  works  invariably  are  blended  with  this 


408 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


thought.  Not  so  your  man  of  cities,  who  inhabits  some 
brick-surrounded  kingdom,  where  the  incessant  din  of 
active  life  as  effectually  excludes  deep  reflection  as  does 
the  smoky  atmosphere  the  bright  sky  above  it.  Immersed 
in  worldly  cares,  interested  heart  and  soul  in  the  pursuit 
of  wealth,  the  solemn  idea  of  death  is  not  broken  to  his 
mind  by  any  analogy  whatever.  It  is  the  pomp  of  the 
funeral  that  realizes  the  idea  to  him;  it  is  as  a thing  of 
undertakers  and  mourning-coaches,  of  mutes  and  palls, 
scarfs,  sextons,  and  grave-diggers,  that  he  knows  it,  — the 
horrid  image  of  human  woe  and  human  mockery,  of  grief 
walking  in  carnival.  No  wonder  if  it  impress  him  with  a 
greater  dread! 

“What  has  all  this  sad  digression  to  do  with  Frankfort, 
Mr.  O’Leary?  ” inquires  some  very  impatient  reader,  who 
always  will  pull  me  short  up  when  I ’m  in  for  a four-mile- 
heat  of  moralizing.  Come,  then,  I ’ll  tell  you.  The  train 
of  thought  was  suggested  to  me  as  I strolled  along  the 
Boulevard  to  my  hotel,  meditating  on  one  of  the  very 
strangest  institutions  it  had  ever  been  my  lot  to  visit  in 
any  country;  and  which,  stranger  still,  so  far  as  I know, 
guide-book  people  have  not  mentioned  in  any  way. 

In  a cemetery  of  Frankfort  — a very  tasteful  imitation 
of  Pere  la  Chaise  — there  stands  a large  building,  hand- 
somely built,  and  in  very  correct  Eoman  architecture, 
which  is  called  the  Recovery  House,  — being  neither  more 
nor  less  than  an  institution  devoted  to  the  dead,  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  them  every  favorable  opportunity  of 
returning  to  life  again  should  they  feel  so  disposed.  The 
apartments  are  furnished  with  all  the  luxurious  elegance 
of  the  best  houses;  the  beds  are  decorated  with  carving 
and  inlaying,  the  carpets  soft  and  noiseless  to  the  tread; 
and,  in  fact,  feAv  of  those  who  live  and  breathe  are  sur- 
rounded by  such  appliances  of  enjoyment.  Beside  each 
bed  there  stands  a small  table,  in  which  certain  ivory  keys 
are  fixed,  exactly  resembling  those  of  a pianoforte.  On 
these  is  the  hand  of  the  dead  man  laid  as  lie  lies  in  the 
bed ; for  instead  of  being  buried,  he  is  conveyed  here  after 
his  supposed  death,  and  wrapped  up  in  warm  blankets, 
while  the  temperature  of  the  room  itself  is  regulated  by 
the  season  of  the  year.  The  slightest  movement  of  vital- 


TIIE  RECOVERY  HOUSE. 


400 


ity  In  li is  fingers  would  press  down  one  of  the  keys,  which 
communicate  with  a bell  at  the  top  of  the  building,  where 
resides  a doctor,  or  rather  two  doctors,  who  take  it  watch 
and  watch  about,  ready  at  the  summons  to  afford  all  the 
succor  of  their  art.  Kestoratives  of  every  kind  abound,  — 
all  that  human  ingenuity  can  devise,  — in  the  way  of  cor- 
dials and  stimulants,  as  well  as  a large  and  admirably- 
equipped  staff  of  servants  and  nurses,  whose  cheerful 
aspect  seems  especially  intended  to  reassure  the  patient 
should  he  open  his  eyes  once  more  to  life. 

The  institution  is  a most  costly  one.  The  physicians, 
selected  from  among  the  highest  practitioners  of  Frankfort, 
are  most  liberally  remunerated,  and  the  whole  retinue  of 
the  establishment  is  maintained  on  a footing  of  even 
extravagant  expenditure.  Of  course,  I need  scarcely  say 
that  its  benefits,  if  such  they  be,  are  reserved  for  the 
wealthy  only.  Indeed,  I have  been  told  that  the  cost  of 
“this  lying  in  state ” exceeds  that  of  the  most  expensive 
funeral  fourfold.  Sometimes  there  is  great  difficulty  in 
obtaining  a vacant  bed.  Periods  of  epidemic  disease  crowd 
the  institution  to  such  a degree  that  the  greatest  influence 
is  exerted  for  a place.  Now,  one  naturally  asks,  What 
success  has  this  system  met  with  to  warrant  this  expendi- 
ture, and  continue  to  enjoy  public  confidence?  None 
whatever.  In  seventeen  years  which  one  of  the  resident 
doctors  passed  there,  not  one  case  occurred  of  restored 
animation;  nor  was  there  ever  reason  to  believe  that  in 
any  instance  the  slightest  signs  of  vitality  ever  returned. 
The  physicians  themselves  make  little  scruple  at  avowing 
the  incredulity  concerning  its  necessity,  and  surprised  me 
by  the  freedom  with  which  they  canvassed  the  excellent 
but  mistaken  notions  of  its  founders. 

To  what,  then,  must  we  look  for  the  reason  of  main- 
taining so  strange  an  institution?  Simply  to  that  love  of 
life  so  remarkably  conspicuous  in  the  people  of  Frankfort. 
The  failure  in  a hundred  instances  is  no  argument  to  any 
man  who  thinks  his  own  case  may  present  the  exception. 
It  matters  little  to  him  that  bis  neighbor  was  past  revival 
when  he  arrived  there;  the  question  is,  What  is  his  own 
chance?  Besides  that,  the  fear  of  being  buried  alive  — a 
dread  only  chimerical  in  other  countries  — must  often 


410 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


present  itself  here,  when  an  institution  is  maintained  to 
prevent  the  casualty;  in  fact,  there  looks  a something  of 
scant  courtesy  in  consigning  a man  to  the  tomb  at  once, 
in  a land  where  a kind  of  purgatorial  sojourn  is  provided 
for  him.  But  stranger  than  all  is  the  secret  hope  this 
system  nourishes  in  the  sick  man’s  heart  that  however 
friends  may  despond,  and  doctors  pronounce,  he  has  a 
chance  still;  there  is  a period  allowed  him  of  appealing 
against  the  decree  of  death,  — enough  if  he  but  lift  a 
finger  against  it.  What  a singular  feature  does  the  whole 
system  expose,  and  how  fond  of  the  world  must  they  be 
who  practise  it!  Who  can  tell  whether  this  House  of 
Recovery  does  not  creep  in  among  the  fading  hopes  of  the 
death-bed,  and  if,  among  the  last  farewells  of  parting  life, 
some  thoughts  of  that  last  chance  are  not  present  to  the 
sick  man’s  mind?  As  I walked  through  its  silent  cham- 
bers, where  the  pale  print  of  death  was  marked  in  every 
face  that  lay  there,  I shuddered  to  think  how  the  rich 
man’s  gold  will  lead  him  to  struggle  against  the  will  of 
his  Creator.  La  Morgue,  in  all  its  fearful  reality,  came 
up  before  me,  and  the  cold  moist  flags  on  which  were 
stretched  the  unknown  corpses  of  the  poor  seemed  far  less 
horrible  than  this  gorgeous  palace  of  the  wealthy  dead. 

Unquestionably,  cases  of  recovery  from  trance  occur  in 
every  land,  and  the  feelings  of  returning  animation,  I have 
often  been  told,  are  those  of  most  intense  suffering.  The 
inch  to  inch  combat  with  death  is  a fearful  agony;  yet 
Avhat  is  it  to  the  horrible  sensations  of  seeming  death,  in 
which  the  consciousness  survives  all  power  of  exertion, 
and  the  mind  burns  bright  within  while  the  body  is  about 
to  be  given  to  the  earth.  Can  there  be  such  a state  as  this? 
Some  one  will  say,  Is  such  a condition  possible?  I believe 
it  firmly.  Many  years  ago  a physician  of  some  eminence 
gave  me  an  account  of  a fearful  circumstance  in  his  own 
life,  which  not  only  bears  upon  the  point  in  question,  but 
illustrates  in  a remarkable  degree  the  powerful  agency  of 
volition  as  a principle  of  vitality.  I shall  give  the  detail 
in  his  own  words,  without  a syllable  of  comment,  save  that 
T can  speak,  from  my  knowledge  of  the  narrator,  to  the 
truth  of  his  narrative. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


THE  “DREAM  OF  DEATH.” 

“It  was  already  near  four  o’clock  ere  I bethought  me  of 
making  any  preparation  for  my  lecture.  The  clay  had 
been,  throughout,  one  of  those  heavy  and  sultry  ones  that 
autumn  so  often  brings  in  our  climate,  and  I felt  from  this 
cause  much  oppressed  and  disinclined  to  exertion,  inde- 
pendently of  the  fact  that  I had  been  greatly  over-fatigued 
during  the  preceding  week,  some  cases  of  a most  trying 
and  arduous  nature  having  fallen  to  my  lot, — one  of 
which,  from  the  importance  of  the  life  to  a young  and 
dependent  family,  had  engrossed  much  of  my  attention, 
and  aroused  in  me  the  warmest  anxiety  for  success.  In 
this  frame  of  mind  I was  entering  my  carriage  to  proceed 
to  the  lecture-room,  when  an  unsealed  note  was  put  into 

my  hands;  I opened  it  hastily,  and  read  .that  poor  H , 

for  whom  I was  so  deeply  interested,  had  just  expired.  I 
was  greatly  shocked.  It  was  scarcely  an  hour  since  I had 
seen  him;  and  from  the  apparent  improvement  since  my 
former  visit,  I had  ventured  to  speak  most  encouragingly, 
and  had  even  made  some  jesting  allusions  to  the  speedy 
prospect  of  his  once  more  resuming  his  place  at  hearth 
and  board.  Alas!  how  shortlived  were  my  hopes  destined 
to  be!  how  awfully  was  my  prophecy  to  be  contradicted! 

“Xo  one  but  he  who  has  himself  experienced  it  knows 
anything  of  the  deep  and  heartfelt  interest  a medical  man 
takes  in  many  of  the  cases  which  professionally  come  before 
him.  I speak  here  of  an  interest  perfectly  apart  from  all 
personal  regard  for  the  patient,  or  his  friends;  indeed,  the 
feeling  I allude  to  has  nothing  in  common  with  this,  and 
will  often  be  experienced  as  thoroughly  for  a perfect 
stranger  as  for  one  known  and  respected  for  years.  To 
the  extreme  of  this  feeling  I was  ever  a victim.  The 
heavy  responsibility,  often  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  im- 


412 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


posed ; the  struggle  for  success,  when  success  was  all  but 
hopeless ; the  intense  anxiety  for  the  arrival  of  those  criti- 
cal periods  which  change  the  character  of  a malady,  and 
divest  it  of  some  of  its  dangers  or  invest  it  with  new  ones; 
the  despondence  when  that  period  has  come  only  to  con- 
firm all  the  worst  symptoms,  and  shut  out  every  prospect 
of  recovery;  and,  last  of  all,  that  most  trying  of  all  the 
trying  duties  of  my  profession,  the  breaking  to  the  per- 
haps unconscious  relatives  that  my  art  has  failed,  that  my 
resources  were  exhausted,  and  in  a word  that  there  was  no 
longer  a hope,  — these  things  have  preyed  on  me  for  weeks, 
for  months  long,  and  many  an  effort  have  I made  in  secret 
to  combat  this  feeling,  but  without  the  least  success,  till 
at  last  I absolutely  dreaded  the  very  thought  of  being  sent 
for  to  a dangerous  and  critical  illness. 

“ It  may  then  be  believed  how  very  heavily  the  news  I 
had  just  received  came  upon  me;  the  blow,  too,  was  not 
even  lessened  by  the  poor  consolation  of  my  having  antici- 
pated the  result  and  broken  the  shock  to  the  family.  I 
was  still  standing  with  the  half-opened  note  in  my  hands, 
when  I was  aroused  by  the  coachman  asking,  I believe  for 
the  third  time,  whither  he  should  drive.  I bethought  me 
for  an  instant,  and  said,  ‘To  the  lecture-room.’ 

“ When  in  health,  lecturing  had  ever  been  to  me  more  of 
an  amusement  than  a labor;  and  often,  in  the  busy  hours 
of  professional  visiting,  have  I longed  for  the  time  when  I 
should  come  before  my  class,  and  divesting  my  mind  of  all 
individual  details,  launch  forth  into  the  more  abstract  and 
speculative  doctrines  of  my  art.  It  so  chanced,  too,  that 
the  late  hour  at  which  I lectured,  as  well  as  the  subjects  I 
adopted,  usually  drew  to  my  class  many  of  the  advanced 
members  of  the  profession,  who  made  this  a lounge  after 
the  fatigues  of  the  morning. 

“Now,  however,  I approached  this  duty  with  fear  and 
trembling;  the  events  of  the  morning  had  depressed  my 
mind  greatly,  and  I longed  for  rest  and  retirement.  The 
passing  glance  I threw  at  the  lecture-room  through  the 
half-opened  door  showed  it  to  be  crowded  to  the  very  roof, 
and  as  I walked  along  the  corridor  I heard  the  name  of 
some  foreign  physician  of  eminence,  who  was  among  my 


THE  “DREAM  OF  DEATH.' 


413 


auditory.  I cannot  describe  the  agitation  of  mind  I felt  at 
this  moment.  My  confusion,  too,  became  greater  as  I re- 
membered that  the  few  notes  I had  drawn  up  were  left  in 
the  pocket  of  the  carriage,  which  I had  just  dismissed,  in- 
tending to  return  on  foot.  It  was  already  considerably  past 
the  usual  hour,  and  I was  utterly  unable  to  decide  how  to 
proceed.  I hastily  drew  out  a portfolio  that  contained 
many  scattered  notes  and  hints  for  lectures,  and  hurriedly 
throwing  my  eye  across  them,  discovered  some  singular 
memoranda  on  the  subject  of  insanity.  On  these  I re- 
solved at  once  to  dilate  a little,  and  eke  out,  if  possible, 
the  materials  for  a lecture. 

“ The  events  of  the  remainder  of  that  day  are  wrapt  in 
much  obscurity  to  my  mind,  yet  I well  remember  the  loud 
thunder  of  applause  which  greeted  me  on  entering  the 
lecture -room,  and  how,  as  for  some  moments  I appeared  to 
hesitate,  they  were  renewed  again  and  again,  till  at  last, 
summoning  resolution,  I collected  myself  sufficiently  to 
open  my  discourse.  I well  remember,  too,  the  difficulty 
the  first  few  sentences  cost  me,  — the  doubts,  the  fears,  the 
pauses,  which  beset  me  at  every  step  as  I went  on, — my 
anxiety  to  be  clear  and  accurate  in  conveying  my  meaning 
making  me  recapitulate  and  repeat,  till  I felt  myself,  as  it 
were,  working  in  a circle.  By  degrees,  however,  I grew 
warmed  as  I proceeded;  and  the  evident  signs  of  attention 
my  auditory  exhibited  gave  me  renewed  courage,  while 
they  impressed  me  with  the  necessity  to  make  a more  than 
common  exertion.  By  degrees,  too,  I felt  the  mist  clear- 
ing from  my  brain,  and  that  even  without  effort  my  ideas 
came  faster,  and  my  words  fell  from  me  with  ease  and 
rapidity.  Simile  and  illustration  came  in  abundance,  and 
distinctions  which  had  hitherto  struck  me  as  the  most  sub- 
tle and  difficult  of  description  I now  drew  with  readiness 
and  accuracy.  Points  of  an  abstruse  and  recondite  nature, 
which  under  other  circumstances  I should  not  have  wished 
to  touch  upon,  I now  approached  fearlessly  and  boldly,  and 
felt,  in  the  very  moment  of  speaking,  that  they  became 
clearer  and  clearer  to  myself.  Theories  and  hypotheses 
which  were  of  old  and  acknowledged  acceptance  I glanced 
hurriedly  at  as  I went  on,  and  with  a perspicuity  and 


414 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


clearness  I never  before  felt  exposed  their  fallacies  and 
unmasked  their  errors.  1 thought  I was  rather  describing 
events,  things  actually  passing  before  my  eyes  at  the  in- 
stant, than  relating  the  results  of  a life’s  experience  and 
reflection.  My  memory,  usually  a defective  one,  now  car- 
ried me  back  to  the  days  of  my  early  childhood;  and  the 
whole  passages  of  a life  long  lay  displayed  before  me  like 
a picture.  If  I quoted,  the  very  words  of  the  author  rushed 
to  my  mind  as  palpably  as  though  the  page  lay  open  before 
me.  I have  still  some  vague  recollection  of  an  endeavor  I 
made  to  trace  the  character  of  the  insanity  in  every  case 
to  some  early  trait  of  the  individual  in  childhood,  when, 
overcome  by  passion  or  overbalanced  by  excitement,  the 
faculties  run  wild  into  all  those  excesses  which  in  after 
years  develop  eccentricities  of  character,  and  in  some 
weaker  temperaments  aberrations  of  intellect.  Anecdotes 
illustrating  this  novel  position  came  thronging  to  my  mind; 
and  events  in  the  early  years  of  some  who  subsequently 
died  insane,  and  seemed  to  support  my  theory,  came  rush- 
ing to  my  memory. 

“ As  I proceeded,  I became  gradually  more  and  more  ex- 
cited; the  very  ease  and  rapidity  with  which  my  ideas 
suggested  themselves  increased  the  fervor  of  my  imagin- 
ings, till  at  last  I felt  my  words  come  without  effort  and 
spontaneously,  while  there  seemed  a commingling  of  my 
thoughts  which  left  me  unable  to  trace  connection  between 
them,  though  I continued  to  speak  as  fluently  as  before.  I 
felt  at  this  instant  a species  of  indistinct  terror  of  some 
unknown  danger  which  hung  over  me,  yet  which  it  was 
impossible  to  avert  or  to  avoid.  I was  like  one  who,  borne 
on  the  rapid  current  of  a fast-flowing  river,  sees  the  foam 
of  the  cataract  before  him,  yet  waits  passively  for  the 
moment  of  his  destruction,  without  an  effort  to  save.  The 
power  which  maintained  my  mind  in  its  balance  had 
gradually  forsaken  me,  and  shapes  and  fantasies  of  every 
odd  and  fantastic  character  flitted  around  and  about  me. 
The  ideas  and  descriptions  my  mind  had  conjured  up  as- 
sumed a living,  breathing  vitality,  and  I felt  like  a necro- 
mancer waving  his  wand  over  the  living  and  the  dead.  I 
paused ; there  was  a dead  silence  in  the  lecture-room.  A 


TIIE  “DREAM  OP  DEATH.' 


415 


thought  rushed  like  a meteor-flash  across  my  brain,  and 
bursting  forth  into  a loud  laugh  of  hysteric  passion,  I 
cried,  ‘And  I,  and  I too  am  a maniac  ! ’ My  class  rose 
like  one  man;  a cry  of  horror  burst  through  the  room.  I 
know  no  more. 

“I  was  ill,  very  ill,  and  in  bed.  I looked  around  me, — 
every  object  was  familiar  to  me.  Through  the  half-closed 
window-shutter  there  streamed  one  long  line  of  red  sun- 
light; I felt  it  was  evening.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
room,  and  as  I endeavored  to  recall  my  scattered  thoughts 
sufficiently  to  find  out  why  1 was  thus,  there  came  an  op- 
pressive weakness  over  me.  I closed  my  eyes  and  tried  to 
sleep,  and  was  roused  by  some  one  entering  the  room.  It 

was  my  friend  Dr.  G ; he  walked  stealthily  towards 

my  bed,  and  looked  at  me  fixedly  for  several  minutes.  I 
watched  him  closely,  and  saw  that  his  countenance  changed 
as  he  looked  on  me;  I felt  his  hand  tremble  slightly  as  he 
placed  it  on  my  wrist,  and  heard  him  mutter  to  himself  in 
a low  tone,  ‘ My  God  ! how  altered  ! ’ I heard  now  a voice 
at  the  door,  saying,  in  a soft  whisper,  ‘ May  I come  in?’ 
The  doctor  made  no  reply,  and  my  wife  glided  gently  into 
the  apartment.  She  looked  deathly  pale,  and  appeared  to 
have  been  weeping;  she  leaned  over  me,  and  I felt  the 
warm  tears  fall  one  by  one  upon  my  forehead.  She  took 
my  hand  within  both  of  hers,  and  putting  her  lips  to  my 
ear,  said,  ‘ Do  you  know  me,  William?  ’ There  was  a long 
pause.  I tried  to  speak,  but  I could  not.  I endeavored  to 
make  some  sign  of  recognition,  and  stared  her  fully  in  the 
face;  but  I heard  her  say,  in  a broken  voice,  ‘ He  does  not 
know  me  now;  ’ and  then  I felt  it  was  in  vain.  The  doctor 
came  over,  and  taking  my  wife’s  hand,  endeavored  to  lead 
her  from  the  room.  I heard  her  say,  ‘ Not  now,  not  now;  ’ 
and  I sank  back  into  a heavy  unconsciousness. 

“ I awoke  from  what  appeared  to  have  been  a long  and 
deep  sleep.  I was,  however,  unrefreshed  and  unrested. 
My  eyes  were  dimmed  and  clouded,  and  I in  vain  tried  to 
ascertain  if  there  was  any  one  in  the  room  with  me.  The 
sensation  of  fever  had  subsided,  and  left  behind  the  most 
depressing  debility.  As  by  degrees  I came  to  myself,  I 


416 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


found  that  the  doctor  was  sitting  beside  my  bed;  he  bent 
over  me,  and  said,  ‘Are  you  better,  William?  ’ Never  un- 
til now  had  my  inability  to  reply  given  me  any  pain  or 
uneasiness;  now,  howevei',  the  abortive  struggle  to  speak 
was  torture.  I thought  and  felt  that  my  senses  were 
gradually  yielding  beneath  me,  and  a cold  shuddering  at 
my  heart  told  me  that  the  hand  of  death  was  upon  me. 
The  exertion  now  made  to  repel  the  fatal  lethargy  must 
have  been  great,  for  a cold,  clammy  perspiration  broke 
profusely  over  my  body;  a rushing  sound,  as  if  of  water, 
filled  my  ears;  a succession  of  short  convulsive  spasms, 
as  if  given  by  an  electric  machine,  shook  my  limbs.  I 
grasped  the  doctor’s  hand  firmly  in  mine,  and  starting  to 
the  sitting  posture  I looked  wildly  about  me.  My  breath- 
ing became  shorter  ami  shorter,  my  grasp  relaxed,  my  eyes 
swam,  and  I fell  back  heavily  in  the  bed.  The  last  recol- 
lection of  that  moment  was  the  muttered  expression  of  my 
poor  friend  G , saying,  ‘ It  is  over  at  last.’ 

“ Many  hours  must  have  elapsed  ere  I returned  to  any 
consciousness.  My  first  sensation  was  feeling  the  cold 
wind  across  my  face,  which  seemed  to  come  from  an  open 
window.  My  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  lids  felt  as  if 
pressed  down  by  a weight.  My  arms  lay  along  my  side, 
and  though  the  position  in  which  I lay  was  constrained 
and  unpleasant,  I could  make  no  effort  to  alter  it;  I tried 
to  speak,  but  I could  not. 

“ As  I lay  thus,  the  footsteps  of  many  persons  traversing 
the  apartment  broke  upon  my  ear,  followed  by  a heavy 
dull  sound,  as  if  some  weighty  body  had  been  laid  upon 
the  floor;  a harsh  voice  of  one  near  me  now  said,  as  if  read- 
ing, ‘William  H , aged  thirty-eight  years;  I thought 

him  much  more.’  The  words  rushed  through  my  brain, 
and  with  the  rapidity  of  a lightning  flash  every  circum- 
stance of  my  illness  came  before  me;  and  I now  knew  that 
I had  died,  and  that  for  my  interment  were  intended  the 
awful  preparations  about  me.  Was  this  then  death?  Could 
it  be  that  though  coldness  wrapped  the  suffering  clay  pas- 
sion and  sense  should  still  survive,  and  that  while  every 
external  trace  of  life  had  fled  consciousness  should  still 
cling  to  the  cold  corpse  destined  for  the  earth?  Oh,  how 


TIIE  “DREAM  OF  DEATH.' 


417 


horrible,  how  more  than  horrible,  the  terror  of  the  thought ! 
Then  I thought  it  might  be  what  is  termed  a trance;  but 
that  poor  hope  deserted  me  as  I brought  to  mind  the 
words  of  the  doctor,  who  knew  too  well  all  the  unerring 
signs  of  death  to  be  deceived  by  its  counterfeit,  and  my 
heart  sank  as  they  lifted  me  into  the  coffin,  and  I felt 
that  my  limbs  had  stiffened,  as  I knew  this  never  took 
place  in  a trance.  How  shall  I tell  the  heart-cutting  an- 
guish of  that  moment,  as  my  mind  looked  forward  to  a 
futurity  too  dreadful  to  think  upon, — when  memory  should 
call  up  many  a sunny  hour  of  existence,  the  loss  of  friends, 
the  triumph  of  exertion,  and  then  fall  back  upon  the  dread 
consciousness  of  the  ever-buried  life  the  grave  closed  over; 
and  then  I thought  that  perhaps  sense  but  lingered  round 
the  lifeless  clay,  as  the  spirits  of  the  dead  are  said  to 
hover  around  the  places  and  homes  they  have  loved  in  life 
ere  they  leave  them  forever,  and  that  soon  the  lamp  should 
expire  upon  the  shrine  when  the  temple  that  sheltered  it 
lay  mouldering  and  in  ruins.  Alas  ! how  fearful  to  dream 
of  even  the  happiness  of  the  past,  in  that  cold  grave  where 
the  worm  only  is  a reveller ! to  think  that  though  — 

‘ Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  laid  side  by  side, 

Yet  none  have  ere  questioned,  nor  none  have  replied,’  — 

yet  that  all  felt  in  their  cold  and  mouldering  hearts  the 
loves  and  affections  of  life,  budding  and  blossoming  as 
though  the  stem  was  not  rotting  to  corruption  that  bore 
them.  I brought  to  mind  the  awful  punishment  of  the 
despot,  who  chained  the  living  to  the  dead  man,  and 
thought  it  mercy  when  compared  to  this. 

“ How  long  I lay  thus  I know  not,  but  the  dreary  silence 
of  the  chamber  was  again  broken,  and  I found  that  some 
of  my  dearest  friends  were  come  to  take  a farewell  look  at 
me  ere  the  coffin  was  closed  upon  me  forever.  Again  the 
horror  of  my  state  struck  me  with  all  its  forcible  reality, 
and  like  a meteor  there  shot  through  my  heart  the  bitter- 
ness of  years  of  misery  condensed  into  the  space  of  a 
minute.  And  then  1 remembered  how  gradual  is  death, 
and  how  by  degrees  it  creeps  over  every  portion  of  the 
frame,  like  the  track  of  the  destroyer,  blighting  as  it  goes, 

37 


418 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


and  said  to  my  heart,  All  may  yet  be  still  within  me,  and 
the  mind  as  lifeless  as  the  body  it  dwelt  in.  Yet  these 
feelings  partook  of  life  in  all  their  strength  and  vigor; 
there  was  the  will  to  move,  to  speak,  to  see,  to  live,  and 
yet  all  was  torpid  and  inactive,  as  though  it  had  never 
lived.  Was  it  that  the  nerves,  from  some  depressing 
cause,  had  ceased  to  transmit  the  influence  of  the  brain? 
Had  these  winged  messengers  of  the  mind  refused  their 
office?  And  then  I recalled  the  almost  miraculous  efficacy 
of  the  will,  exerted  under  circumstances  of  great  exigency, 
and  with  a concentration  of  power  that  some  men  only  are 
capable  of.  I had  heard  of  the  Indian  father  who  suckled 
his  child  at  his  own  bosom,  when  he  had  laid  its  mother  in 
her  grave;  yet  was  it  not  the  will  had  wrought  this  mira- 
cle? I myself  have  seen  the  paralytic  limb  awake  to  life 
and  motion  by  the  powerful  application  of  the  mind  stimu- 
lating the  nervous  channels  of  communication,  and  awak- 
ening the  dormant  powers  of  vitality  to  their  exercise.  I 
knew  of  one  whose  heart  beat  fast  or  slow  as  he  did  will 
it.  Yes,  thought  I,  in  a transport,  the  will  to  live  is  the 
power  to  live;  and  only  when  this  faculty  has  yielded  with 
bodily  strength  need  death  be  the  conqueror  over  us. 

“The  thought  of  reanimation  was  ecstatic,  but  I dared 
not  dwell  upon  it;  the  moments  passed  rapidly  on,  and 
even  now  the  last  preparations  were  about  to  be  made,  ere 
they  committed  my  body  to  the  grave.  How  was  the  effort 
to  be  made?  If  the  will  did  indeed  possess  the  power  I 
trusted  in,  how  was  it  to  be  applied?  I had  often  wished 
to  speak  or  move  during  my  illness,  yet  was  unable  to  do 
either.  I then  remembered  that  in  those  cases  where  the 
will  had  worked  its  wonders,  the  powers  of  the  mind  had 
entirely  centred  themselves  in  the  one  heart-filling  desire 
to  accomplish  a certain  object,  as  the  athlete  in  the  games 
strains  every  muscle  to  lift  some  ponderous  weight.  Thus 
I knew  that  if  the  heart  could  be  so  subjected  to  the  prin- 
ciple of  volition,  as  that,  yielding  to  its  impulse,  it  would 
again  transmit  the  blood  along  its  accustomed  channels, 
and  that  then  the  lungs  should  be  brought  to  act  upon  the 
blood  by  the  same  agency,  the  other  functions  of  the  body 
would  be  more  readily  restored  by  the  sympathy  with  these 


THE  “DREAM  OF  DEATH.”  419 

great  ones.  Besides,  I trusted  that  so  long  as  the  powers 
of  the  mind  existed  in  the  vigor  I felt  them  in,  that  much 
of  what  might  be  called  latent  vitality  existed  in  the  body. 
Then  I set  myself  to  think  upon  those  nerves  which  pre- 
side over  the  action  of  the  heart, — their  origin,  their 
course,  their  distribution,  their  relation,  their  sympathies; 
I traced  them  as  they  arose  in  the  brain,  and  tracked  them 
till  they  were  lost  in  millions  of  tender  threads  upon  the 
muscle  of  the  heart.  I thought,  too,  upon  the  lungs  as 
they  lay  flaccid  and  collapsed  within  my  chest,  the  life- 
blood stagnant  in  their  vessels,  and  tried  to  possess  my 
mind  with  the  relation  of  these  two  parts  to  the  utter  ex- 
clusion of  every  other.  I endeavored  then  to  transmit 
along  the  nerves  the  impulse  of  that  faculty  my  whole 
hopes  rested  on.  Alas!  it  was  in  vain.  I tried  to  heave 
my  chest  and  breathe,  but  could  not;  my  heart  sank  within 
me,  and  all  my  former  terrors  came  thickening  around  me, 
more  dreadful  by  far  as  the  stir  and  bustle  in  the  room  in- 
dicated they  were  about  to  close  the  coffin. 

“At  this  moment  my  dear  friend  B entered  the  room. 

He  had  come  many  miles  to  see  me  once  more,  and  they 
made  way  for  him  to  approach  me  as  I lay.  He  placed  his 
warm  hand  upon  my  breast,  and  oh  the  throb  it  sent 
through  my  heart!  Again,  but  almost  unconsciously  to 
myself,  the  impulse  rushed  along  my  nerves;  a bursting 
sensation  seized  my  chest,  a tingling  ran  through  my 
frame,  a crashing,  jarring  sensation  as  if  the  tense  nervous 
cords  were  vibrating  to  some  sudden  and  severe  shock  took 
hold  on  me;  and  then,  after  one  violent  convulsive  throe 
which  brought  the  blood  from  my  mouth  and  eyes,  my 
heart  swelled,  at  first  slowly,  then  faster,  and  the  nerves 
reverberated,  clank!  clank!  responsive  to  the  stroke.  At 
the  same  time  the  chest  expanded,  the  muscles  strained 
like  the  cordage  of  a ship  in  a heavy  sea,  and  I breathed 
once  more. 

“While  thus  the  faint  impulse  to  returning  life  was 
given,  the  dread  thought  flashed  on  me  that  it  might  not 
be  real,  and  that  to  my  own  imagination  alone  were  refera- 
ble the  phenomena  I experienced.  At  the  same  instant 
the  gloomy  doubt  crossed  my  mind  it  was  dispelled;  for  I 


420 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


heard  a cry  of  horror  through  the  room,  and  the  words, 
‘He  is  alive!  he  still  lives!  ’ from  a number  of  voices 
around  me.  The  noise  and  confusion  increased.  I heard 
them  say,  ‘ Carry  out  B — before  he  sees  him  again;  he 
has  fainted!  ’ Directions  and  exclamations  of  wonder  and 
dread  followed  one  upon  another;  and  I can  but  call  to 
mind  the  lifting  me  from  the  coffin,  and  the  feeling  of  re- 
turning warmth  I experienced,  as  I was  placed  before  a 
fire,  and  supported  by  the  arms  of  my  friend. 

“I  will  only  add  that  after  some  weeks  of  painful  de- 
bility I was  again  restored  to  health,  having  tasted  the 
full  bitterness  of  death.” 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


THE  STRANGE  GUEST. 

The  Eil  Wagen,  into  whose  bowels  I had  committed  my- 
self on  leaving  Frankfort,  rolled  along  for  twenty-four 
hours  before  I could  come  to  any  determination  as  to 
whither  I should  go;  for  so  is  it  that  perfect  liberty  is 
sometimes  rather  an  inconvenience,  and  a little  despotism 
is  now  and  then  no  bad  thing;  and  at  this  moment  I could 
have  given  a ten-gulden  piece  to  any  one  who  should  have 
named  my  road,  and  settled  my  destination. 

“Where  are  we?”  said  I,  at  length,  as  we  straggled, 
nine  horses  and  all,  into  a great  vaulted  porte-cochere. 

“At  the  Koenig  von  Preussen,  Mein  Herr,”  said  a yellow- 
haired waiter,  who  flourished  a napkin  about  him  in  very 
professional  style. 

“Ah,  very  true;  but  in  what  town,  city,  or  village,  and 
in  whose  kingdom?” 

“Ach  du  lieber  Gott!”  exclaimed  he,  with  his  eyes 
opened  to  their  fullest  extent.  “Where  would  you  be 
but  in  the  city  of  Hesse  Cassel,  in  the  Grand  Duchy  of 
Seiner  Koniglichen  Hocheit  — ” 

“Enough,  more  than  enough!  Let  me  have  supper.” 

The  Speiss  Saal  was  crowded  with  travellers  and  towns- 
people as  I entered;  but  the  room  was  of  great  size,  and 
a goodly  table,  amply  provided,  occupied  the  middle  of  it. 
Taking  my  place  at  this,  I went  ahead  through  the  sliced 
shoe-leather,  yclept  beef,  the  kalbs-braten  and  the  gurkin 
salad,  and  all  the  other  indigestible  abominations  of  that 
light  meal  a German  takes  before  he  lies  down  at  night. 
The  company  were,  with  the  exception  of  a few  military 
men,  of  that  nondescript  class  every  German  town  abounds 
with, — a large-headed,  long-haired,  plodding-looking  gen- 
eration, with  huge  side-pockets  in  their  trousers,  from  one 
of  which  a cherry-wood  pipe-stick  is  sure  to  project;  civil, 


422 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


obliging,  good  sort  of  people  they  are,  but  by  no  means 
remarkable  for  intelligence  or  agreeability.  But  then, 
what  mind  could  emerge  from  beneath  twelve  solid  inches 
of  beetroot  and  bouilli,  and  what  brain  could  bear  immer- 
sion in  Bavarian  beer? 

One  never  can  understand  fully  how  artrocious  the  tyr- 
anny of  Napoleon  must  have  been  in  Germany,  until  he 
has  visited  that  country  and  seen  something  of  its  inhabi- 
tants; then  only  can  one  compute  what  must  the  hurricane 
have  been  that  convulsed  the  waters  of  such  a land-locked 
bay.  Never  was  there  a people  so  little  disposed  to  com- 
pete with  their  rulers,  never  was  obedience  more  thoroughly 
an  instinct.  The  whole  philosophy  of  the  German’s  mind 
teaches  him  to  look  within  rather  than  without;  his  own 
resources  are  more  his  object  in  life  than  the  enjoyment  of 
state  privileges,  and  to  his  peaceful  temper  endurance  is  a 
pleasanter  remedy  than  resistance.  Almost  a Turk  hi  his 
love  of  tranquillity,  he  has  no  sympathy  with  revolutions 
or  public  disturbances  of  any  kind,  and  the  provocation 
must  indeed  be  great  when  he  arouses  himself  to  resist  it. 
That  when  he  is  thus  called  on  he  can  act  with  energy  and 
vigor,  the  campaigns  of  1813  and  1814  abundantly  testify. 
Twice  the  French  armies  had  to  experience  the  heavy  re- 
tribution on  unjust  invasion.  Both  Spain  and  Germany 
repaid  the  injuries  they  had  endured,  but  with  a character- 
istic difference  of  spirit.  In  the  one  case  it  was  the  desul- 
tory attacks  of  savage  guerillas,  animated  by  the  love  of 
plunder  as  much  as  by  patriotism;  in  the  other,  the  rising 
of  a great  people  to  defend  their  homes  and  altars,  pre- 
sented the  glorious  spectacle  of  a nation  going  forth  to  the 
fight.  The  wild  notes  of  the  Basque  bugle  rang  not  out 
with  such  soul-stirring  effect  as  the  beautiful  songs  of 
Korner,  heard  beside  the  watch-fire  or  at  the  peasant’s 
hearth.  The  conduct  of  their  own  princes  might  have 
debased  the  national  spirit  of  any  other  people;  but  the 
German’s  attachment  to  Fatherland  is  not  a thing  of  courtly 
rule  nor  conventional  agreement.  He  loves  the  land  and 
the  literature  of  his  fathers;  he  is  proud  of  the  good  faith 
and  honesty  which  are  the  acknowledged  traits  of  Saxon 
character;  he  holds  to  the  “sittliche  Leben,”  the  orderly 


THE  STRANGE  GUEST. 


423 


domestic  habits  of  liis  country ; and  as  he  wages  not  a war 
of  aggression  on  others,  he  resists  the  spoliation  of  an 
enemy  on  the  fields  of  his  native  country. 

When  the  French  revolution  first  broke  out,  the  students 
were  amongst  its  most  ardent  admirers;  the  destruction  of 
the  Bastile  was  celebrated  among  the  secret  festivals  of 
the  Burschenscraft;  and  although  the  fever  was  a brief 
one,  and  never  extended  among  the  more  thinking  portion 
of  the  nation,  to  that  same  enthusiasm  for  liberty  was 
owing  the  great  burst  of  national  energy  which  in  1813 
convulsed  the  land  from  the  Baltic  to  the  Tyrol,  and  made 
Leipsic  the  compensation  for  Jena. 

With  all  his  grandeur  of  intellect,  Napoleon  never  un- 
derstood the  national  character, — perhaps  he  may  have 
despised  it.  One  of  his  most  fatal  Errors,  undoubtedly, 
was  the  little  importance  he  attached  to  the  traits  which 
distinguish  one  country  from  another,  and  the  seeming 
indifference  with  which  he  propounded  notions  of  gov- 
ernment diametrically  opposed  to  all  the  traditions  and 
prejudices  of  those  for  whom  they  were  intended.  The 
great  desire  for  centralization;  the  ambition  to  make 
France  the  heart  of  Europe,  through  whose  impulse  the 
life-blood  should  circulate  over  the  entire  Continent;  to 
merge  all  distinctions  of  race  and  origin,  and  make 
Frenchmen  of  one  quarter  of  the  globe, — was  a stupen- 
dous idea,  and  if  nations  were  enrolled  in  armies,  might 
not  be  impossible.  The  effort  to  effect  it,  however,  cost 
him  the  greatest  throne  of  Christendom. 

The  French  rule  in  Spain,  in  Italy,  and  in  Holland,  so 
far  from  conciliating  the  good-will  and  affection  of  the 
people,  has  sown  the  seeds  of  that  hatred  to  France  in  each 
of  these  countries  that  a century  will  not  eradicate;  while 
no  greater  evidence  of  Napoleon’s  ignorance  of  national 
character  need  be  adduced  than  in  the  expectations  he  in- 
dulged in  the  event  of  his  landing  an  army  in  England. 
His  calculation  on  support  from  any  part  of  the  British 
people, — no  matter  how  opposed  to  the  ministry  of  the 
day,  or  how  extreme  in  their  wishes  for  extended  liber- 
ties,— was  the  most  chimerical  thought  that  ever  entered 
the  brain  of  man.  Very  little  knowledge  of  our  country 


424 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


might  have  taught  him  that  the  differences  of  party  spirit 
never  survive  the  mere  threat  of  foreign  invasion;  that 
however  Englishmen  may  oppose  one  another,  they  re- 
serve a very  different  spirit  of  resistance  for  the  stranger 
who  should  attack  their  common  country;  and  that  party, 
however  it  may  array  men  in  opposite  ranks,  is  itself  but 
the  evidence  of  patriotism,  seeking  different  paths  for  its 
development. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  a little  reverie  to  this  purpose  that 
I found  myself  sitting  with  one  other  guest  at  the  long 
table  of  the  Speiss  Saal ; the  rest  had  dropped  off  one  by 
one,  leaving  him  in  the  calm  enjoyment  of  his  meerschaum 
and  his  cup  of  black  coffee.  There  was  something  striking 
in  the  air  and  appearance  of  this  man,  and  I could  not  help 
regarding  him  closely ; he  was  about  fifty  years  of  age,  but 
with  a carriage  as  erect  and  a step  as  firm  as  any  man  of 
twenty.  A large  white  mustache  met  his  whiskers  of  the 
same  color,  and  hung  in  heavy  curl  over  his  upper  lip;  his 
forehead  was  high  and  narrow,  and  his  eyes,  deeply  set, 
were  of  a greenish  hue,  and  shaded  by  large  eyebrows  that 
met  when  he  frowned.  His  dress  was  a black  frock, 
braided  in  Prussian  taste  and  decorated  by  a single  cordon, 
which  hung  not  over  the  breast,  but  on  an  empty  sleeve  of 
his  coat,  for  I now  perceived  that  he  had  lost  his  right 
arm  near  the  shoulder.  That  he  was  a soldier  and  had 
seen  service,  the  most  careless  observer  could  have  de- 
tected; his  very  look  and  bearing  bespoke  the  militaire. 
He  never  spoke  to  any  one  during  supper,  and  from  that 
circumstance,  as  well  as  his  dissimilarity  to  the  others,  I 
judged  him  to  be  a traveller.  There  are  times  when  one 
is  more  than  usually  disposed  to  let  Fancy  take  the  bit  in 
her  mouth  and  run  off  with  them ; and  so  I suffered  myself 
to  weave  a story,  or  rather  a dozen  stories,  for  my  com- 
panion, and  did  not  perceive  that  while  I was  inventing  a 
history  for  him  he  had  most  ungratefully  decamped,  leaving 
me  in  a cloud  of  tobacco-smoke  and  difficult  conjectures. 

When  I descended  to  the  Saal  the  next  morning  I found 
him  there  before  me;  he  was  seated  at  breakfast  before 
one  of  the  windows,  which  commanded  a view  over  the 
platz  and  the  distant  mountains.  And  here  let  me  ask, 


THE  STRANGE  GUEST. 


425 


Have  you  ever  been  in  Hesse  Cassel?  The  chances  are, 
not.  It  is  the  high-road  — nowhere.  You  neither  pass  it 
going  to  Berlin,  or  Dresden.  There  is  no  wonder  of  scenery 
or  art  to  attract  strangers  to  it;  and  yet  if  accident  should 
bring  you  thither,  and  plant  you  in  the  Konigvon  Preussen, 
with  no  pressing  necessity  urging  you  onward,  there  are 
many  less  pleasant  things  you  could  do  than  spend  a week 
there.  The  hotel  stands  on  one  side  of  a great  platz,  or 
square,  at  either  side  of  which  the  theatre  and  a museum 
form  the  other  two  wings;  the  fourth  being  left  free  of 
building,  is  occupied  by  a massive  railing  of  most  labored 
tracery,  which  opens  to  a wide  gate  in  a broad  flight  of 
steps,  descending  about  seventy  feet  into  a spacious  park. 
The  tall  elms  and  beech-trees  can  be  seen  waving  their 
tops  over  the  grille  above,  and  seeming,  from  the  platz, 
like  young  timber;  beyond,  and  many  miles  away,  can  be 
seen  the  bold  chain  of  the  Taunus  mountains  stretching  to 
the  clouds,  forming  altogether  a view  which  for  extent  and 
splendor  I know  of  no  city  can  present  the  equal.  I could 
scarce  restrain  my  admiration;  and  as  I stood  actually  riv- 
eted to  the  spot,  I was  totally  inattentive  to  the  second 
summons  of  the  waiter,  informing  me  that  my  breakfast 
awaited  me  in  another  part  of  the  room. 

“What,  yonder?”  said  I,  in  some  disappointment  at  be- 
ing so  far  removed  from  all  chance  of  the  prospect. 

“Perhaps  you  would  join  me  here,  sir,”  said  the  officer, 
rising,  and  with  a most  affable  air  saluting  me. 

“ If  not  an  intrusion  — ” 

“By  no  means,”  said  he.  “I  am  a passionate  admirer 
of  that  view  myself.  I have  known  it  many  years,  and  I 
always  feel  happy  when  a stranger  participates  in  my  en- 
joyment of  it.” 

I confess  I was  no  less  gratified  by  the  opportunity  thus 
presented  of  forming  an  acquaintance  with  the  officer  him- 
self than  with  the  scenery,  and  I took  my  seat  with  much 
pleasure.  As  we  chatted  away  about  the  town  and  the 
surrounding  country,  he  half  expressed  a curiosity  at  my 
taking  a route  so  little  travelled  by  my  countrymen,  and 
seemed  much  amused  by  my  confession  that  the  matter 
was  purely  accidental,  and  that  frequently  I left  the  des- 


426 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


tination  of  my  ramble  to  the  halting-place  of  the  diligence. 
As  English  eccentricity  can,  in  a foreigner’s  estimation, 
carry  any  amount  of  absurdity,  he  did  not  set  me  down  for 
a madman, — which,  had  I been  French  or  Italian,  he  most 
certainly  would  have  done, — and  only  smiled  slightly  at 
my  efforts  to  defend  a procedure  in  his  eyes  so  ludicrous. 

“You  confess,”  said  I,  at  last,  somewhat  nettled  by  the 
indifference  with  which  he  heard  my  most  sapient  argu- 
ments,— “you  confess  on  what  mere  casualties  every  event 
of  life  turns,  what  straws  decide  the  whole  destiny  of  a 
man,  and  what  mere  trivial  circumstances  influence  the 
fate  of  whole  nations,  and  how  in  our  wisest  and  most 
matured  plans  some  unexpected  contingency  is  ever  arising 
to  disconcert  and  disarrange  us;  why,  then,  not  go  a step 
farther, — leave  more  to  fate,  and  reserve  all  our  efforts  to 
behave  well  and  sensibly,  wherever  we  may  be  placed,  in 
whatever  situations  thrown?  As  we  shall  then  have  fewer 
disappointments,  we  shall  also  enjoy  a more  equable  frame 
of  mind,  to  combat  with  the  world’s  chances.” 

“ True,  if  a man  were  to  lead  a life  of  idleness,  such  a 
wayward  course  might  possibly  suffice  him  as  well  as  any 
other;  but,  bethink  you,  it  is  not  thus  men  have  wrought 
great  deeds,  and  won  high  names  for  themselves.  It  is 
not  by  fickleness  and  caprice,  by  indolent  yielding  to 
the  accident  of  the  hour,  that  reputations  have  been 
acquired  — ” 

“You  speak,”  said  I,  interrupting  him  at  this  place, — 
“you  speak  as  if  humble  men  like  myself  were  to  occupy 
their  place  in  history,  and  not  lie  down  in  the  dust  of  the 
churchyard  undistinguishable  and  forgotten.” 

“ When  they  cease  to  act  otherwise  than  to  deserve  com- 
memoration, rely  upon  it  their  course  is  a false  one.  Our 
conscience  may  be  — indeed  often  is  — a bribed  judge; 
and  it  is  only  by  representing  to  ourselves  how  our  modes 
of  acting  and  thinking  would  tell  upon  the  minds  of  others, 
reading  of  but  not  knowing  us,  that  we  arrive  at  that  cer- 
tain rule  of  right  so  difficult  in  many  worldly  trials.” 

“ And  do  you  think  a man  becomes  happier  by  this?  ” 

“I  did  not  say  happier,”  said  he,  with  a sorrowful  em- 
phasis on  the  last  word.  “He  may  be  better.” 


THE  STRANGE  GUEST. 


427 


With  that  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  looking  at  his 
watch  he  apologized  for  leaving  me  so  suddenly,  and 
departed. 

“ Who  is  the  gentleman  that  has  just  gone  out?”  asked 
I of  the  waiter. 

“The  Baron  von  Elgenheim,”  replied  he;  “but  they 
mostly  call  him  the  Black  Colonel.  Not  for  his  mus- 
taches,” added  he,  laughing  with  true  German  familiarity, 
“they  are  white  enough,  but  he  always  wears  mourning.” 

“Does  he  belong  to  Hesse,  then?  ” 

“Not  he;  he ’s  an  Ouslander  of  some  sort,  — a Swabian, 
belike ; but  he  comes  here  every  year,  and  stays  three  or 
four  weeks  at  a time.  And,  droll  enough  too,  though  he 
has  been  doing  so  for  fifteen  or  sixteen  years,  he  has  not  a 
single  acquaintance  in  all  Cassel;  indeed,  I never  saw  him 
speak  to  a stranger  till  this  morning.” 

These  particulars,  few  as  they  were,  all  stimulated  my 
curiosity  to  see  more  of  the  colonel;  but  he  did  not  pre- 
sent himself  at  the  table  d’hote  on  that  day  or  the  follow- 
ing one,  and  I only  met  him  by  chance  in  the  Park,  when 
a formal  salute,  given  with  cold  politeness,  seemed  to  say 
our  acquaintance  was  at  an  end. 

Now,  there  are  certain  inns  which  by  a strange  magnet- 
ism are  felt  as  homes  at  once;  there  is  a certain  air  of 
quietude  and  repose  about  them  that  strikes  you  when  you 
enter,  and  which  gains  on  you  every  hour  of  your  stay. 
The  landlord,  too,  has  a bearing  compounded  of  cordiality 
and  respect;  and  the  waiter,  divining  your  tastes  and  par- 
tialities, falls  quickly  into  your  ways,  and  seems  to  regard 
you  as  an  habitue  while  you  are  yet  a stranger;  while  the 
ringleted  young  lady  at  the  bar,  who  passed  you  the  first 
day  on  the  stairs  with  a well-practised  indifference,  now 
accosts  you  with  a smile  and  a curtesy,  and  already  believes 
you  an  old  acquaintance. 

To  an  indolent  man  like  myself,  these  houses  are  impos- 
sible to  leave.  If  it  be  summer,  you  are  sure  to  have  a 
fresh  bouquet  in  your  bed-room  every  morning  when  you 
awake;  in  winter,  the  r/argou  has  discovered  how  you  like 
vour  slippers  toasted  on  the  fender,  and  your  robe-de- 
chambre  airing  on  the  chair;  the  cook  learns  your  taste  in 


428 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


cutlets,  and  knows  to  a nicety  how  to  season  your  omelette 
aux  fines  herbes;  the  very  washerwoman  of  the  establish- 
ment has  counted  the  plaits  in  your  shirt,  and  would  n’t 
put  one  more  or  less  for  any  bribery.  By  degrees,  too, 
you  become  a kind  of  confidant  of  the  whole  household. 
The  host  tells  you  of  ma’mselle’s  fortune,  and  the  match 
on  the  tapis  for  her,  and  all  its  difficulties  and  advantages, 
contra  and  pro ; the  waiter  has  revealed  to  you  a secret  of 
passion  for  the  chambermaid,  but  for  which  he  would  be 
Heaven  knows  how  many  thousand  miles  off,  in  some  won- 
derful place,  where  the  wages  would  enable  him  to  retire 
in  less  than  a twelvemonth;  and  even  Boots,  while  de- 
positing your  Wellingtons  before  the  fire,  has  unburdened 
his  sorrows  and  his  hopes,  and  asks  your  advice,  “if  he 
should  n’t  become  a soldier?  ” When  this  hour  arrives, 
the  house  is  your  own.  Let  what  will  happen,  your  fire 
burns  brightly  in  your  bed-room;  let  who  will  come,  your 
dinner  is  cared  for  to  a miracle.  The  newspaper,  coveted 
by  a dozen  and  eagerly  asked  for,  is  laid  by  for  your  read- 
ing; you  are,  then,  in  the  poet’s  words, — 

“ Liber,  honoratus,  puleher,  — Rex  deuique  Regum;” 

and,  let  me  tell  you,  there  are  worse  sovereignties. 

Apply  this  to  the  Konig  von  Preussen,  and  wonder  not 
if  I found  myself  its  inhabitant  for  three  weeks  after- 
wards. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


THE  PARK. 

In  somewhat  less  than  a fortnight’s  time  I had  made  a 
bowing  acquaintance  with  some  half-dozen  good  subjects  of 
Hesse,  and  formed  a chatting  intimacy  with  some  three  or 
four  frequenters  of  the  table,  d'hote,  with  whom  I occasion- 
ally strolled  out  of  an  afternoon  into  the  Park,  to  drink 
coffee,  and  listen  to  the  military  band  that  played  there 
every  evening.  The  quiet  uniformity  of  the  life  pleased 
and  never  wearied  me;  for  happily  — or  unhappily,  as  some 
would  deem  it  — mine  is  one  of  those  tame  and  common- 
place natures  which  need  not  costly  amusements  nor  ex- 
pensive tastes  to  occupy  it.  I enjoy  the  society  of  agree- 
able people  with  a gusto  few  possess;  I can  also  put  up 
with  the  association  with  those  of  a different  stamp,  feel- 
ing sensibly  how  much  more  I am  on  a level  with  them, 
and  how  little  pretension  I have  to  find  myself  among  the 
others.  Fortunately,  too,  1 have  no  sympathy  with  the 
pleasures  which  wealth  alone  commands, — it  was  a taste 
denied  me.  I neither  affect  to  undervalue  their  import- 
ance, nor  sneer  at  their  object;  I simply  confess  that  the 
faculty  which  renders  them  desirable  was  by  some  accident 
omitted  from  my  nature,  and  I never  yet  felt  the  smallness 
of  my  fortune  a source  of  regret. 

There  is  no  such  happiness,  to  my  notion,  as  that  which 
enables  a man  to  be  above  the  dependence  on  others  for  his 
pleasures  and  amusements,  to  have  the  sources  of  enjoy- 
ment in  his  own  mind,  and  to  feel  that  his  own  thoughts 
and  his  own  reflections  are  his  best  wealth.  There  is  no 
selfishness  in  this;  far  from  it.  The  stores  thus  laid  by 
make  a man  a better  member  of  society,  more  ready  to 
assist,  more  able  to  advise  his  fellow-men.  By  standing 
aloof  from  the  game  of  life,  you  can  better  estimate  the 
chances  of  success  and  the  skill  of  the  players;  and  as  you 


430 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


have  no  stake  in  the  issue,  the  odds  are  that  your  opinion  is 
a correct  one.  But,  better  than  all,  how  many  enjoyments 
which  to  the  glitter  of  wealth  or  the  grandeur  of  a high 
position  would  seem  insignificant  and  valueless,  are  to  the 
humble  man  sources  of  hourly  delight!  And  is  our  happi- 
ness anything  but  an  aggregate  of  these  grains  of  pleasure? 
There  is  as  much  philosophy  in  the  child’s  toy  as  in  the 
nobleman’s  coronet;  all  the  better  for  him  who  can  limit 
his  desires  to  the  attainable,  and  be  satisfied  with  what  lies 
within  his  reach.  I have  practised  the  system  for  a life 
long,  and  feel  that  if  I now  enjoy  much  of  the  buoyancy 
and  the  spirit  of  more  youthful  days,  it  is  because  I have 
never  taxed  my  strength  beyond  its  ability,  and  striven  for 
more  than  I could  justly  pretend  to.  There  is  something 
of  indolence  in  all  this, — I know  there  is;  but  I was  born 
under  a lazy  star,  and  I cannot  say  I regret  my  destiny. 

From  this  little  expose  of  my  tastes  and  habits  it  may 
be  gathered  that  Cassel  suited  me  perfectly.  The  air  of 
repose  which  rests  on  these  little  secluded  capitals  has 
something  — to  me  at  least  — inexpressibly  pleasurable. 
The  quaint  old-fashioned  equipages,  drawn  along  at  a gen- 
tle amble;  the  obsolete  dress  of  the  men  in  livery;  the 
studious  ceremony  of  the  passers  to  each  other;  the  absence 
of  all  bustle;  the  primitive  objects  of  sale  exposed  in  the 
various  shops, — all  contrasting  so  powerfully  with  the 
wealth-seeking  tumult  of  richer  communities, — suggest 
thoughts  of  tranquillity  and  contentment.  They  are  the 
bourgeoisie  of  the  great  political  world.  Debarred  from 
the  great  game  which  empires  and  kingdoms  are  playing, 
they  retire  within  the  limits  of  their  own  narrow  but  safe 
enjoyments,  with  ample  means  for  every  appliance  of  com- 
fort; they  seek  not  to  astonish  the  world  by  any  display, 
but  content  themselves  with  the  homely  happiness  within 
their  reach. 

Every  day  I lingered  here  I felt  this  conviction  the 
stronger.  The  small  interests  which  occupied  the  public 
mind  originated  no  violent  passions,  no  exaggerated  party 
spirit.  The  journals  — those  indices  of  a nation’s  mind  — 
contained  less  politics  than  criticism;  an  amicable  little 
contention  about  the  site  of  a new  fountain  or  the  position 


TIIE  PARK. 


431 


of  an  elector’s  statue  was  the  extent  of  any  discussion; 
while  at  every  opportunity  crept  out  some  little  congratu- 
lating expression  on  the  goodness  of  the  harvest,  the  abun- 
dance of  the  vintage,  or,  what  was  scarcely  less  valued, 
the  admirable  operatic  company  which  had  just  arrived. 
These  may  seem  very  petty  incidents  for  men  to  pass  their 
lives  amongst,  thought  I,  but  still  they  all  seem  very 
happy;  there  is  much  comfort,  there  is  no  poverty.  Like 
the  court  whist-table,  where  the  points  are  only  for  silver 
groschen,  the  amusement  is  just  as  great,  and  no  one  is 
ruined  by  high  play. 

I am  not  sure  but  I should  have  made  an  excellent  Hes- 
sian, thought  I,  as  I deposited  two  little  silver  pieces, 
about  the  size  of  a spangle,  on  the  table,  in  payment  for  a 
very  appetizing  little  supper,  and  an  ink-bottleful  of  Rhine 
wine.  And  now  for  the  coffee. 

I was  seated  beneath  a great  chestnut-tree,  whose  spread- 
ing branches  shaded  me  from  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
that  came  slanting  to  my  very  feet.  At  a short  distance 
off  sat  a little  family  party, — grandfather,  grandchildren, 
and  all, — there  was  no  mistaking  them;  they  were  eating 
their  supper  in  the  Park,  possibly  in  honor  of  some  domes- 
tic fete.  Yes,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it;  it  was  the 
birthday  of  that  pretty,  dark-eyed  little  girl,  of  some  ten 
years  of  age,  who  wore  a wreath  of  roses  in  her  hair,  and 
sat  at  the  top  of  the  table,  beside  the  Greis.  A burst  of 
delighted  laughter  broke  from  them  all  as  I looked.  And 
now  I could  see  a little  boy  of  scarce  five  years  old,  whose 
long  yellow  locks  hung  midway  down  his  back;  he  was 
standing  beside  his  sister’s  chair,  and  I could  hear  his  in- 
fant voice  reciting  a little  verse  he  had  learned  in  honor 
of  the  day.  The  little  man,  whose  gravity  contrasted  so 
ludicrously  with  the  merry  looks  about,  went  through  his 
task  as  steadily  as  a court  preacher  holding  forth  before 
royalty;  an  occasional  breach  of  memory  would  make  him 
now  and  then  turn  his  head  to  one  side,  where  an  elder 
sister  knelt,  and  then  he  would  go  on  again  as  before.  I 
wished  much  to  catch  the  words,  but  could  only  hear  the  re- 
frain of  each  verse,  which  he  always  repeated  louder  than 
the  rest, — 


432 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“ Da  sind  die  Tage  lang  genuch, 

Da  sind  die  Nachte  niilde.” 

Scarcely  had  he  finished  when  his  mother  caught  him  to 
her  arms  and  kissed  him  a hundred  times;  while  the  others 
struggled  to  take  him,  the  little  fellow  clung  to  her  neck 
with  all  his  strength. 

It  was  a picture  of  such  happiness,  that  to  look  on  it 
were  alone  a blessing.  I have  that  night’s  looks  and 
cheerful  voices  fresh  in  my  memory,  and  have  thought  of 
them  many  a long  mile  away  from  where  I then  heard 
them. 

A slight  noise  beside  me  made  me  turn  round,  and  I saw 
the  Black  Colonel,  as  the  waiter  called  him,  and  whom  I 
had  uot  met  for  several  days  past.  He  was  seated  on  a 
bench  near,  but  with  his  back  towards  me,  and  I could  per- 
ceive he  was  evidently  unaware  of  my  presence.  I had, 
I must  confess  it,  felt  somewhat  piqued  at  his  avoidance 
of  me,  for  such  the  distant  recognition  with  which  he 
saluted  me  seemed  to  imply.  He  had  made  the  first  ad- 
vances himself,  and  it  was  scarcely  fair  that  he  should 
have  thus  abruptly  stopped  short,  after  inviting  acquaint- 
ance. While  I was  meditating  a retreat,  he  turned  sud- 
denly about,  and  then,  taking  off  his  hat,  saluted  me  with 
a courtly  politeness  quite  different  from  his  ordinary 
manner. 

“I  see,  sir,”  said  he,  with  a very  sweet  smile,  as  he 
looked  towards  the  little  group, — “I  see,  sir,  you  are  in- 
deed an  admirer  of  pretty  prospects.” 

Few  and  simple  as  the  words  were,  they  were  enough 
to  reconcile  me  to  the  speaker;  his  expression,  as  he 
spoke  them,  had  a depth  of  feeling  in  it  which  showed 
that  his  heart  was  touched. 

After  some  commonplace  remark  of  mine  on  the  sim- 
plicity of  German  domestic  habits  and  the  happy  immunity 
they  enjoyed  from  that  rage  of  fashion  which  in  other  coun- 
tries involved  so  many  in  rivalling  with  others  wealthier 
than  themselves,  the  Colonel  assented  to  the  observation, 
but  expressed  his  sorrow  that  the  period  of  primitive  tastes 
and  pleasures  was  rapidly  passing  away.  The  French 
Revolution  first,  and  subsequently  the  wars  of  the  empire, 


THE  PAKK. 


433 


had  done  much  to  destroy  the  native  simplicity  of  German 
character;  while  in  latter  days  the  tide  of  travel  had 
brought  a host  of  vulgar  rich  people,  whose  gold  corrupted 
the  once  happy  peasantry,  suggesting  wants  and  tastes 
they  never  knew  nor  need  to  know. 

“As  for  the  great  cities  of  Germany,”  continued  he, 
“ they  have  scarcely  a trace  left  of  their  ancient  national- 
ity. Vienna  and  Berlin,  Dresden  and  Munich,  are  but 
poor  imitations  of  Paris;  it  is  only  in  the  old  and  less 
visited  towns,  such  as  Nuremberg,  or  Augsburg,  that  the 
Alt  Deutsch  habits  still  survive.  Some  few  of  the  Grand- 
Ducal  States  — Weimar,  for  instance  — preserve  the  primi- 
tive simplicity  of  former  days  even  in  courtly  etiquette; 
and  there,  really,  the  government  is  paternal,  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  term.  You  would  think  it  strange,  would  you 
not,  to  dine  at  court  at  four  o’clock,  and  see  the  grand- 
ducal  ministers  and  their  ladies  — the  elite  of  a little  world 
of  their  own  — proceeding,  many  of  them  on  foot,  in  court- 
dress,  to  dinner  with  their  sovereign?  Strange,  too,  would 
you  deem  it  — dinner  over  — to  join  a promenade  with  the 
party  in  the  Park,  where  all  the  bourgeoisie  of  the  town 
are  strolling  about  with  their  families,  taking  their  coffee 
and  their  tea,  and  only  interrupting  their  conversation  or 
their  pleasure  to  salute  the  Grand-Duke  or  Grand-Duchess, 
and  respectfully  bid  them  a ‘good  e’en;  ’ and  then,  as  it 
grew  later,  to  return  to  the  palace  for  a little  whist  or  a 
game  of  chess,  or,  better  still,  to  make  one  of  that  delight- 
ful circle  in  the  drawing-room  where  Goethe  was  sitting? 
Yes,  such  is  the  life  of  Weimar.  The  luxury  of  your  great 
capitals,  the  gorgeous  salons  of  London  and  Paris,  the  vol- 
uptuous pleasures  which  unbounded  wealth  and  all  its 
train  of  passions  beget,  are  utterly  unknown  there;  but 
there  is  a world  of  pure  enjoyment  and  of  intercourse  with 
high  and  gifted  minds  which  more  than  repay  you  for  their 
absence. 

“A  few  years  more,  and  all  this  will  be  but  ‘matter  for 
an  old  man’s  memory.’  Increased  facilities  of  travel  and 
greater  knowledge  of  language  erase  nationality  most  rap- 
idly. The  venerable  habits  transmitted  from  father  to 
son  for  centuries  — the  traditional  customs  of  a people — - 

28 


434 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


cannot  survive  a caricature  nor  a satire.  The  esprit  moqueur 
of  France  and  the  insolent  wealth  of  England  have  left  us 
scarce  a vestige  of  our  Fatherland.  Our  literature  is  at 
this  instant  a thing  of  shreds  and  patches, — bad  transla- 
tions of  bad  books;  the  deep  wisdom  and  the  racy  humor 
of  Jean  Paul  are  unknown,  while  the  vapid  wit  of  a mod- 
ern French  novel  is  extolled.  They  prefer  the  false  glitter 
of  Dumas  and  Balzac  to  the  sterling  gold  of  Schiller  and 
Herder;  and  even  Leipsic  and  Waterloo  have  not  freed 
us  from  the  slavish  adulation  of  the  conquered  to  the 
conqueror.” 

“What  would  you  have?  ” said  I. 

“I  would  have  Germany  a nation  once  more, — a nation 
whose  limits  should  reach  from  the  Baltic  to  the  Tyrol. 
Her  language,  her  people,  her  institutions  entitle  her  to 
be  such;  and  it  is  only  when  parcelled  into  kingdoms  and 
petty  States,  divided  by  the  artful  policy  of  foreign  powers, 
that  our  nationality  pines  and  withers.” 

“I  can  easily  conceive,”  said  I,  “that  the  Confederation 
of  the  Rhine  must  have  destroyed  in  a great  measure  the 
patriotic  feeling  of  Western  Germany.  The  peasantry 
were  sold  as  mercenaries;  the  nobles,  little  better,  took 
arms  in  a cause  many  of  them  hated  and  detested  — ” 

“I  must  stop  you  here,”  said  he,  with  a smile;  “not 
that  you  would  or  could  say  that  which  should  wound 
my  feelings,  but  you  might  hurt  your  own  when  you  came 
to  know  that  he  to  whom  yoii  are  speaking  served  in  that 
army.  Yes,  sir,  I was  a soldier  of  Napoleon.” 

Although  nothing  could  be  more  unaffectedly  easy  than 
his  manner  as  he  said  this,  I feared  I might  already  have  said 
too  much;  indeed,  I knew  not  the  exact  expressions  I had 
used,  and  there  Avas  a pause  of  some  minutes,  broken  at 
length  by  the  Colonel  saying, — 

“Let  us  walk  towards  the  town;  for  if  I mistake  not 
they  close  the  gates  of  the  Park  at  midnight,  and  I believe 
we  are  the  only  persons  remaining  here  iioav.” 

Chattering  of  indifferent  matters,  Ave  arrived  at  the 
hotel;  and  after  accepting  an  invitation  to  accompany  the 
Baron  the  next  day  to  Wilhelms  Hbhe,  I Avished  him  good- 
night and  retired. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


THE  BARON’S  STORY. 

Every  one  knows  liow  rapidly  acquaintance  ripens  into 
intimacy  when  mere  accident  throws  two  persons  together 
in  situations  where  they  have  no  other  occupation  than 
each  other’s  society;  days  do  the  work  of  years,  confi- 
dences spring  up  where  mere  ceremonies  would  have  been 
interchanged  before,  and  in  fact  a freedom  of  thought  and 
speech  as  great  as  we  enjoy  in  our  oldest  friendships. 
Such  in  less  than  a fortnight  was  the  relation  between 
the  Baron  and  myself.  We  breakfasted  together  every 
morning,  and  usually  sallied  forth  afterwards  into  the 
country,  generally  on  horseback,  and  only  came  back  to 
dinner,  — a ramble  in  the  Park  concluding  our  day. 

I still  look  back  to  those  days  as  amougst  the  pleasantest 
of  my  life;  for  although  the  temper  of  my  companion’s 
mind  was  melancholic,  it  seemed  rather  the  sadness  induced 
by  some  event  of  his  life  than  the  depression  resulting  from 
a desponding  temperament, — a great  difference,  by  the 
way;  as  great  as  between  the  shadow  we  see  at  noonday 
and  the  uniform  blackness  of  midnight.  He  had  evidently 
seen  much  of  the  world,  and  in  the  highest  class ; he  spoke 
of  Paris  as  he  knew  it  in  the  gorgeous  time  of  the  empire, 
— of  the  Tuileries,  when  the  salons  were  crowded  with 
kings  and  sovereign  princes;  of  Napoleon,  too,  as  he  saw 
him,  wet  and  cold,  beside  the  bivouac  fire,  interchanging  a 
rude  jest  with  some  gronard  of  the  Garde,  or  commanding, 
in  tones  of  loud  superiority,  to  the  marshals  who  stood 
awaiting  his  orders.  The  Emperor,  he  said,  never  liked 
the  Germans;  and  although  many  evinced  a warm  attach- 
ment to  his  person  and  his  cause,  they  were  not  French- 
men, and  he  could  not  forgive  it.  The  Alsatians  he 
trusted,  and  was  partial  to;  but  his  sympathies  stopped 
short  at  the  Rhine;  and  he  always  felt  that  if  fortune 


436 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


turned,  the  wrongs  of  Germany  must  have  their  recom- 
pense. 

While  speaking  freely  on  these  matters,  I remarked 
that  he  studiously  avoided  all  mention  of  his  own  ser- 
vices,— a mere  passing  mention  of  “I  was  there,”  or, 
“My  regiment  was  engaged  in  it,”  being  the  extent  of  his 
observations  regarding  himself.  His  age  and  rank,  his 
wound  itself,  showed  that  he  must  have  seen  service  in  its 
most  active  times;  and  my  curiosity  was  piqued  to  learn 
something  of  his  own  history,  but  which  I did  not  feel 
myself  entitled  to  inquire. 

We  were  returning  one  evening  from  a ramble  in  the 
country,  when  stopping  to  ask  a drink  at  a wayside  inn, 
we  found  a party  of  soldiers  in  possession  of  the  only 
room,  where  they  were  regaling  themselves  with  wine; 
while  a miserable-looking  object,  bound  with  his  arms 
behind  his  back,  sat  pale  and  woe-begone  in  one  corner 
of  the  apartment,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  and  the  tears 
slowly  stealing  along  his  cheeks. 

“What  is  it?”  asked  I of  the  landlord,  as  I peeped  in 
at  the  half-open  door. 

“ A deserter,  sir  — ” 

The  word  was  scarcely  spoken  when  the  Colonel  let  fall 
the  cup  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  leaned,  almost  fainting, 
against  the  wall. 

“Let  us  move  on,”  said  he,  in  a voice  scarcely  articu- 
late, while  the  sickness  of  death  seemed  to  work  in  his 
features. 

“You  are  ill,”  said  I;  “we  had  better  wait  — ” 

“No,  not  here,  — not  here,”  repeated  he  anxiously;  “in 
a moment  I shall  be  well  again,  — lend  me  your  arm.” 

We  walked  on,  at  first  slowly,  for  with  each  step  he 
tottered  like  one  after  weeks  of  illness;  at  last  he  rallied, 
and  we  reached  Cassel  in  about  an  hour’s  time,  during 
which  he  spoke  but  once  or  twice.  “I  must  bid  you  a 
good-night  here,”  said  lie,  as  we  entered  the  inn;  “I  feel 
but  poorly,  and  shall  hasten  to  bed.”  So  saying,  and 
without  waiting  for  a word  on  my  part,  he  squeezed  my 
hand  affectionately,  and  left  me. 

It  was  not  in  my  power  to  dismiss  from  my  mind  a 


THE  BARON'S  STORY. 


437 


number  of  gloomy  suspicions  regarding  the  Baron,  as  I 
slowly  wended  my  way  to  my  room.  The  uppermost 
thought  I had  was,  that  some  act  of  his  past  life  — some 
piece  of  military  severity,  for  which  he  now  grieved 
deeply  — had  been  brought  back  to  his  memory  by  the 
sight  of  the  poor  deserter.  It  was  evident  that  the  set- 
tled melancholy  of  his  character  referred  to  some  circum- 
stance or  event  of  his  life;  nothing  confirmed  this  more 
than  any  chance  allusions  he  would  drop  concerning  his 
youthful  days,  which  appeared  to  be  marked  by  high  dar- 
ing and  buoyant  spirits. 

While  I pondered  over  these  thoughts,  a noise  in  the 
inn-yard  beneath  my  window  attracted  my  attention.  I 
leaned  out,  and  heard  the  Baron’s  servant  giving  orders 
for  post-horses  to  be  ready  by  daybreak  to  take  his  mas- 
ter’s carriage  to  Meissner,  while  a courier  was  already 
preparing  to  have  horses  in  waiting  at  the  stages  along 
the  road.  Again  my  brain  was  puzzled  to  account  for  this 
sudden  departure,  and  I could  not  repress  a feeling  of 
pique  at  his  not  having  communicated  his  intention  of 
going,  which,  considering  our  late  intimacy,  had  been 
only  common  courtesy.  This  little  slight  — for  such  I 
felt  it  — did  not  put  me  in  better  temper  with  my  friend, 
nor  more  disposed  to  be  lenient  in  judging  him;  and  I was 
already  getting  deeper  and  deeper  in  my  suspicions,  when 
a gentle  tap  came  to  my  door,  and  the  Baron’s  servant 
entered,  with  a request  that  I would  kindly  step  over  to 
his  master’s  room,  who  desired  to  see  me  particularly.  I 
did  not  delay  a moment,  but  followed  the  man  along  the 
corridor,  and  entered  the  salon,  which  I found  in  total 
darkness. 

“The  Baron  is  in  bed,  sir,”  said  the  servant;  “but  he 
wishes  to  see  you  in  his  room.” 

On  a small  camp-bed,  which  showed  it  to  have  been  once 
a piece  of  military  equipment,  the  Baron  was  lying.  He 
had  not  undressed,  but  merely  thrown  on  his  robe-de-cham- 
bre  and  removed  his  cravat  from  his  throat;  his  one  hand 
was  pressed  closely  on  his  face,  and  as  he  stretched  it  out 
to  grasp  mine,  I was  horror-struck  at  the  altered  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance.  The  eyes,  bloodshot  and  wild, 


438 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


glanced  about  the  room  with  a hurried  and  searching  look, 
while  his  parched  lips  muttered  rapidly  some  indistinct 
sounds.  I saw  that  he  was  very  ill,  and  asked  him  if  it 
were  not  as  well  he  should  have  some  advice. 

“No,  my  friend,  no,”  said  he,  with  more  composure  in 
his  manner;  “the  attack  is  going  off  now.  It  rarely  lasts 
so  long  as  this.  You  have  never  heard  perhaps  of  that 
dreadful  malady  which  physicians  call  ‘angina,’  the  most 
agonizing  of  all  diseases,  and  I believe  the  least  under- 
stood. I have  been  subject  to  it  for  some  years,  and  as 
there  is  no  remedy,  and  as  any  access  of  it  may  prove  fatal, 
life  is  held  on  but  poor  conditions  — ” 

He  paused  for  a second  or  two,  then  resumed,  but  with 
a manner  of  increased  excitement. 

“They  will  shoot  him!  Yes,  I have  heard  it  all.  It’s 
the  second  time  he  has  deserted ; there  is  not  a chance  left 
him.  I must  leave  this  by  daybreak,  — I must  get  me  far 
away  before  to-morrow  evening;  there  would  not  come  a 
stir,  the  slightest  sound,  but  I should  fancy  I heard  the 
fusillade.” 

I saw  now  clearly  that  the  deserter’s  fate  had  made  the 
impression  which  brought  on  the  attack ; and  although  my 
curiosity  to  learn  the  origin  of  so  powerful  a sensibility 
was  greater  than  ever,  I would  willingly  have  sacrificed  it 
to  calming  his  mind,  and  inducing  thoughts  of  less  violent 
excitement.  But  he  continued,  speaking  with  a thick  and 
hurried  utterance,  — 

“I  was  senior  lieutenant  of  the  Carabiniers  de  la  Garde 
at  eighteen.  We  were  cjuartered  at  Strasbourg;  more  than 
half  of  the  regiment  were  my  countrymen,  some  from  the 
very  village  where  I was  born.  One  there  was,  a lad  of 
sixteen,  my  schoolfellow  and  companion  when  a boy;  he 
was  the  only  child  of  a widow  whose  husband  had  fallen 
in  the  wars  of  the  Revolution.  When  he  was  drawn  in 
the  conscription,  no  less  than  seven  others  presented  them- 
selves to  go  in  his  stead;  but  old  Girardon,  who  commanded 
the  brigade,  simply  returned  for  answer,  ‘ Such  brave  men 
are  worthy  to  serve  France;  let  them  all  be  enrolled,’  and 
they  were  so.  A week  afterwards  Louis  my  schoolfellow 
deserted.  He  swam  the  Rhine  at  Kehl,  and  the  same 


THE  BARON’S  STORY. 


439 


evening  reached  his  mother’s  cottage.  Tie  was  scarcely 
an  hour  at  home  when  a party  of  his  own  regiment  cap- 
tured him;  he  was  brought  back  to  Strasbourg,  tried  by 
torchlight,  and  condemned  to  death. 

“The  officer  who  commanded  the  party  for  his  execution 
fainted  when  the  prisoner  was  led  out;  the  men,  horror- 
struck  at  the  circumstance,  grounded  their  arms  and  refused 
to  tire.  Girardon  was  on  the  ground  in  an  instant;  he  gal- 
loped up  to  the  youth  who  knelt  there  with  his  arms  bound 
behind  him,  and  drawing  a pistol  from  his  holster,  placed 
the  muzzle  on  his  forehead,  and  shot  him  dead!  The  men 
were  sent  back  to  the  barracks,  and  by  a general  order  of 
the  same  day  were  drafted  into  different  regiments  through- 
out the  army;  the  officer  was  degraded  to  the  ranks,  — it 
was  myself.” 

It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  the  Colonel  was  ena- 
bled to  conclude  this  brief  story;  the  sentences  were  uttered 
with  short,  almost  convulsive  efforts,  and  when  it  was  over 
he  turned  away  his  face,  and  seemed  buried  in  grief. 

“You  think,”  said  he,  turning  round  and  taking  my  hand 
in  his,  — “you  think  that  the  sad  scene  has  left  me  such 
as  you  see  me  now.  Would  to  Heaven  my  memory  were 
charged  with  but  that  mournful  event!  Alas!  it  is  not 
so.”  He  wiped  a tear  from  his  eye,  and  with  a faltering 
voice  continued.  “You  shall  hear  my  story.  I never 
breathed  it  to  one  living,  nor  do  I think  now  that  my 
time  is  to  be  long  here.” 

Having  fortified  his  nerves  with  a powerful  opiate,  the 
only  remedy  in  his  dreadful  malady,  he  began:  — 

“I  was  reduced  to  the  ranks  in  Strasbourg;  four  years 
after,  day  for  day,  I was  named  Chef  de  Bataillon  on  the 
field  of  Elchingen.  Of  twelve  hundred  men  our  battalion 
came  out  of  action  with  one  hundred  and  eighty;  the 
report  of  the  corps  that  night  was  made  by  myself  as 
senior  officer,  and  I was  but  a captain. 

“ ‘ Who  led  the  division  of  stormers  along  the  covered 
way?  ’ said  the  Emperor,  as  I handed  our  list  of  killed 
and  wounded  to  Duroc,  who  stood  beside  him. 

“ ‘ It  was  I,  Sire.’ 

‘“You  are  major  of  the  Seventh  regiment,’  said  he 


440 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


‘Now,  there  is  another  of  yours  I must  ask  for;  how  is 
he  called  that  surprised  the  Austrian  battery  on  the 
Dor  ran  Kopf  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Himself  again,  Sire,  ’ interrupted  Duroc,  who  saw  that 
I hesitated  how  to  answer  him. 

‘“Very  well,  very  well  indeed,  Elgenheim;  report  him 
as  Chef  de  Bataillon,  Duroc,  and  colonel  of  his  regiment. 
There,  sir,  your  countrymen  call  me  unjust  and  ungener- 
ous. Show  them  your  brevet  to-night,  and  do  you,  at 
least,  be  a witness  in  my  favor.’ 

“ I bowed  and  uttered  a few  words  of  gratitude,  and  was 
about  to  withdraw,  when  Duroc,  who  had  been  whispering 
something  in  the  Emperor’s  ear,  said  aloud,  ‘ I ’m  certain 
he ’s  the  man  to  do  it.  Elgenheim,  his  Majesty  has  a most 
important  despatch  to  forward  to  Innspruck  to  Marshal 
Ney.  It  will  require  something  more  than  mere  bravery 
to  effect  this  object,  — it  will  demand  no  small  share  of 
address  also.  The  passes  above  Saltzbourg  are  in  the  pos- 
session of  the  Tyrolese  sharpshooters;  two  videttes  have 
been  cut  off  within  a week,  and  it  will  require  at  least  the 
force  of  a regiment  to  push  through.  Are  you  willing  to 
take  the  command  of  such  a party?  ’ 

“ ‘ If  his  Majesty  will  honor  me  with  — ’ 

“‘Enough,  sir,’  interrupted  the  Emperor;  ‘we  have  no 
time  to  lose  here.  Your  orders  shall  be  ready  by  day- 
break; you  shall  have  a squadron  of  Chasseurs,  as  scouts, 
and  be  prepared  to  march  to-morrow.’ 

“The  following  day  I left  the  camp  with  my  party  of 
eight  hundred  men,  and  moved  to  the  southward.  It  may 
seem  strange  to  think  of  a simple  despatch  of  a few  lines 
requiring  such  a force,  — indeed,  I thought  so  at  the  time; 
but  I lived  to  see  two  thousand  men  employed  on  a similar 
service  in  Spain,  and,  worse  still,  not  always  successfully. 
In  less  than  a week  we  approached  Landberg,  and  entered 
the  land  of  mountains.  The  defiles,  which  at  first  were 
sufficiently  open  to  afford  space  for  manoeuvres,  gradually 
contracted;  while  the  mountains  at  either  side  became 
wilder  and  more  lofty,  a low  brushwood  of  holly  and 
white-oak  scarce  hiding  the  dark  granite  rocks  that  seemed 
actually  piled  loosely  one  above  another,  and  ready  to  crash 


TIIE  BARON’S  STORY. 


441 


flown  at  the  least  impulse.  In  the  valleys  themselves  the 
mountain  rivulets  were  collected  into  a strong  current, 
which  rattled  along  amid  masses  of  huge  rock,  and  swept 
in  broad  flakes  of  foam  sometimes  across  the  narrow  road 
beside  it.  Here,  frequently,  not  more  than  four  men  could 
march  abreast;  and  as  the  winding  of  the  glens  never  per- 
mitted a view  of  much  more  than  a mile  in  advance,  the 
position,  in  case  of  attack,  was  far  from  satisfactory. 

“ For  three  entire  days  we  continued  our  march,  adopting, 
as  we  went,  every  precaution  against  surprise  I could  think 
of;  a portion  of  the  cavalry  were  always  employed  as 
eclaireurs  in  advance,  and  the  remainder  brought  up  the 
rear,  following  the  main  body  at  the  distance  of  a mile  or 
two.  The  stupendous  crags  that  frowned  above,  leaving 
us  but  a narrow  streak  of  blue  sky  visible;  the  mournful 
echoes  of  the  deep  valleys;  the  hoarse  roar  of  the  waters 
or  the  wild  notes  of  the  black  eagle,  — all  conspired  to 
throw  an  impression  of  sadness  over  our  party,  which  each 
struggled  against  in  vain.  It  was  now  the  third  morning 
since  we  entered  the  Tyrol,  and  yet  never  had  we  seen  one 
single  inhabitant.  The  few  cottages  along  the  roadside 
were  empty,  the  herds  had  disappeared  from  the  hills,  and 
a dreary  waste,  unrelieved  by  one  living  object,  stretched 
far  away  before  us.  My  men  felt  the  solitude  far  more 
deeply  than  if  every  step  had  been  contested  with  them. 
They  were  long  inured  to  danger,  and  would  willingly  have 
encountered  an  enemy  of  mortal  mould;  but  the  gloomy 
images  their  minds  conjured  up  were  foes  they  had  never 
anticipated  nor  met  before.  As  for  myself,  the  desolation 
brought  but  one  thought  before  me;  and  as  I looked  upon 
the  wild  wastes  of  mountain,  where  the  chalet  of  the 
hunter  or  the  cot  of  the  shepherd  reared  its  humble  head, 
the  fearful  injustice  of  invasive  war  came  fully  to  my 
mind.  Again  and  again  did  I ask  myself  what  greatness 
and  power  could  gain  by  conflict  with  poverty  like  this? 
How  could  the  humble  dweller  in  these  lonely  regions 
become  an  object  of  kingly  vengeance,  or  his  bleak  hills 
a thing  for  kingly  ambition?  And,  more  than  all,  what 
could  the  Tyrol  peasant  ever  have  done  thus  to  bring  down 
upon  his  home  the  devastating  tide  of  war?  To  think  that 


442 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


but  a few  days  back  and  tlie  cheerful  song  of  the  hunter 
resounded  through  those  glens,  and  the  laugh  of  children 
was  heard  in  those  cottages  where  now  all  was  still  as 
death.  We  passed  a small  cluster  of  houses  at  the  open- 
ing of  a glen,  — it  could  scarce  be  called  a village,  — and 
here,  so  lately  had  they  been  deserted,  the  embers  were 
yet  warm  on  the  hearth,  and  in  one  hut  the  table  was 
spread  and  the  little  meal  laid  out,  while  they  who  were 
to  have  partaken  of  it  were  perhaps  miles  away. 

“Plunged  in  these  sad  reflections,  I sat  on  a little 
eminence  of  rock  behind  the  party,  while  they  reposed 
themselves  during  the  heat  of  noon.  The  point  I occupied 
afforded  a view  for  some  miles  of  the  road  we  had  trav- 
elled, and  I turned  to  see  if  our  cavalry  detachment  was 
not  coming  up ; when,  as  I strained  my  eyes  in  the  direc- 
tion, I thought  I could  perceive  an  object  moving  along 
the  road,  and  stooping  from  time  to  time.  I seized  my 
glass,  and  now  could  distinctly  perceive  the  figure  of  a 
man  coming  slowly  onwards.  That  we  had  not  passed 
him  on  the  way  was  quite  evident,  and  he  must  therefore 
have  been  on  the  mountain,  or  in  concealment  beside  the 
road.  Either  thought  was  sufficient  to  excite  my  suspi- 
cion, and  without  a second’s  delay  I sprang  into  the  saddle, 
and  putting  my  horse  to  his  speed  galloped  back  as  fast  as 
I could.  As  I came  nearer,  I half  fancied  I saw  the  figure 
move  to  one  side  and  then  back  again,  as  though  irresolute 
how  to  act;  and  fearing  lest  he  should  escape  me  by  tak- 
ing to  the  mountain,  I called  to  him  aloud  to  halt.  He 
stood  still  as  I spoke,  and  I now  came  up  beside  him.  He 
was  an  old  man,  seemingly  above  eighty  years  of  age;  his 
hair  and  beard  were  white  as  snow,  and  he  was  bent  almost 
double  with  time;  his  dress  was  the  common  costume  of  a 
Tyrolese,  except  that  he  wore  in  addition  a kind  of  cloak 
with  a loose  hood,  such  as  the  pilgrims  wear  in  Austria; 
and  indeed  his  staff  and  leathern  bottle  bespoke  him  such. 
To  all  my  questions  as  to  the  road  and  the  villages  he 
replied  in  a kind  of  patois  I could  make  nothing  of,  for 
although  tolerably  well  versed  in  all  the  dialects  of  South- 
ern Germany,  his  was  quite  unintelligible  to  me.  Still, 
the  question  how  he  came  there  was  one  of  great  moment; 


TIIE  BARON’S  STORY. 


443 


if  he  had  been  concealed  while  we  passed  so  near,  why  not 
others?  His  age  and  decrepitude  forbade  the  thought  of 
his  having  descended  the  mountain,  and  so  I felt  puzzled 
in  no  common  degree.  As  these  doubts  passed  through 
my  mind,  the  poor  old  man  stood  trembling  at  my  side  as 
though  fearing  what  fate  might  be  in  store  for  him. 
Anxious  to  recompense  him  for  the  trouble  I had  caused 
him,  I drew  out  my  purse;  but  no  sooner  did  he  see  it 
than  he  motioned  it  away  with  his  hand,  and  shook  his 
head  in  token  of  refusal. 

“ ‘ Come,  then,  ’ said  I,  ‘ I ’ve  met  a pilgrim  ere  this 
would  not  refuse  a cup  of  wine;  ’ and  with  that  I unslung 
my  canteen  and  handed  it  to  him.  This  he  seized  eagerly 
and  drained  it  to  the  bottom,  holding  up  both  hands  when 
he  had  finished,  and  muttering  something  I conjectured  to 
be  a prayer.  He  was  the  only  living  object  belonging  to 
the  country  that  I had  seen;  a sudden  whim  seized  me, 
and  I gave  him  back  the  flask,  making  a sign  that  he 
should  keep  it.  He  clutched  the  gift  with  the  avidity 
of  old  age,  and  sitting  down  upon  a stone  began  to  admire 
it  with  eager  eyes.  Despairing  of  making  him  understand 
a word,  and  remembering  it  was  time  to  move  forward,  I 
waved  my  hand  in  adieu  and  galloped  back. 

“The  cavalry  detachment  came  up  soon  after;  and  guess 
ray  astonishment  to  learn  that  they  had  not  seen  the  old 
man  on  the  road,  nor,  although  they  narrowly  watched  the 
mountain,  perceived  any  living  thing  near.  I confess  I 
could  not  dismiss  a feeling  of  uncomfortable  suspicion  from 
my  mind,  and  all  the  reflections  I bestowed  upon  his  age 
and  decrepitude  were  very  far  from  reassuring  me.  More 
than  once  I regretted  not  having  brought  him  forward  with 
us ; but  again  the  fact  of  having  such  a prisoner  would  have 
exposed  me  to  ridicule  at  headquarters,  if  not  to  a heavy 
reprimand. 

“Full  of  these  reflections,  I gave  the  word  to  move 
forward.  Our  object  was,  if  possible,  to  reach  the  open- 
ing of  the  Mittenwald  before  night,  where  I was  informed 
that  a small  dismantled  fort  would  afford  a secure  position 
if  attacked  by  any  mountain  party.  On  comparing  the 
route  of  the  map,  however,  with  the  road,  I discovered 


444 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


that  the  real  distances  were  in  many  cases  considerably 
greater  than  they  were  set  down,  and  perceived  that  with 
all  our  efforts  we  could  not  hope  to  emerge  from  the  ravine 
of  the  Schwartz-thal  before  the  following  day.  This  fact 
gave  me  much  uneasiness;  for  I remembered  having  heard 
that  as  the  glen  approaches  the  Mittenwald,  the  pass  is 
narrowed  to  a mere  path,  obstructed  at  every  step  by 
masses  of  fallen  rock,  while  the  mountains,  more  thickly 
covered  with  underwood,  afford  shelter  for  any  party  lying 
in  ambush.  Nothing  could  be  more  fatal  than  an  attack 
in  such  a position,  where  a few  determined  men  in  front 
could  arrest  the  march  of  a whole  regiment;  while  from 
the  close  sides  of  the  pass,  a well-directed  lire  must  sweep 
the  ranks  of  those  below.  This  gorge,  which,  narrowing 
to  a mere  portal,  has  been  called  the  Mitten-Thor,  was  the 
scene  of  some  fearful  struggles  between  the  French  troops 
and  the  Tyrolese,  and  was  always  believed  to  be  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  the  passes  of  the  Tyrol,  — every  despatch 
to  the  headquarters  of  the  army  referring  to  the  disasters 
that  befell  there,  and  suggesting  plans  for  the  occupation 
of  the  blockhouse  near  it,  as  a means  of  defence. 

“ By  the  advice  of  my  officers,  one  of  whom  was  already 
acquainted  with  all  the  circumstances  of  the  ground,  I de- 
termined on  halting  at  a part  of  the  glen  about  two  miles 
from  the  Mitten-Thor,  where  a slight  widening  of  the  val- 
ley afforded  more  space  for  movement  if  attacked;  and  here 
we  arrived  as  evening  was  beginning  to  fall.  It  was  a 
small  oval  spot  between  the  mountains,  through  which 
a little  stream  ran,  dividing  it  almost  into  equal  portions, 
and  crossed  by  a bridge  of  rude  planks,  to  which  a little 
path  conducted  and  led  up  the  mountains.  Scarcely  were 
our  watchfires  lighted  when  the  moon  rose,  and  although 
herself  not  visible  to  our  eyes  as  we  lay  in  the  deep  valley, 
a rich  flood  of  silver  light  fell  on  one  range  of  the  moun- 
tains, marking  out  every  cliff  and  crag  with  the  distinct- 
ness of  day.  The  opposite  mountain,  wrapped  in  deepest 
shadow,  was  one  mass  of  undistinguisliable  blackness,  and 
seemed  to  frown  ominously  and  gloomily  upon  us.  The 
men  were  wearied  with  a long  march,  and  soon  lay  down 
to  rest  beside  their  fires;  and  save  the  low  subdued  hum 


THE  BARON’S  STORY. 


445 


of  the  little  encampment,  the  valley  was  in  perfect  silence. 
On  the  bridge,  from  which  the  pass  was  visible  for  a good 
distance  in  both  directions,  I had  placed  a look-out  sen- 
try; and  a chain  of  patrols  were  established  around  the 
bivouac. 

“These  arrangements,  which  occupied  me  some  time, 
being  completed,  I threw  myself  down  beside  my  fire, 
and  prepared  for  sleep.  But  somehow,  though  I had 
passed  a day  of  fatigue  and  exertion,  I could  not  slum- 
ber; every  time  I closed  my  eyes  the  vision  of  the  old 
pilgrim  was  before  me,  and  a vague,  undefined  feeling  of 
apprehension  hung  over  me.  I tried  to  believe  it  was  a 
mere  fancy,  attributable  to  the  place,  of  whose  terrors  I 
had  heard  so  much;  but  my  mind  dwelt  on  all  the  disas- 
ters of  the  Schwartz-thal,  and  banished  every  desire  for 
repose.  As  I lay  there,  thinking,  my  eyes  were  attracted 
by  a little  rocky  point,  about  thirty  feet  above  me  on  the 
mountain,  on  which  the  full  splendor  of  the  moonlight 
shone  at  intervals  as  the  dark  clouds  drifted  from  before 
her;  and  a notion  took  me  — why  and  how  I never  could 
explain  to  myself  — to  ascend  the  crag,  and  take  a view 
down  the  valley.  A few  minutes  after,  and  I was  seated 
on  the  rock,  from  which  I could  survey  the  pass  and  the 
encampment  stretched  out  beneath  me.  It  was  just  such  a 
scene  as  Salvator  used  to  paint,  — the  wild  fantastic  moun- 
tains, bristling  with  rude  pines  and  fragments  of  granite; 
a rushing  torrent,  splashing  and  boiling  beneath;  a blaz- 
ing watch-fire,  and  the  armed  group  around  it,  their 
weapons  glancing  in  the  red  light;  while,  to  add  to  the 
mere  picture,  there  came  the  monotonous  hum  of  the  sol- 
dier’s song  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  upon  his  post. 

“ I sat  a long  while  gazing  at  this  scene,  many  a pleasant 
thought  of  that  bandit  life  we  Germans  feel  such  interest 
in,  from  Schiller’s  play,  passing  through  my  mind,  when  I 
heard  the  rustling  of  leaves,  and  a crackling  sound  as  of 
broken  branches,  issue  from  the  mountain  almost  directly 
above  me.  There  was  not  a breath  of  wind  nor  a leaf 
stirring,  save  there.  I listened  eagerly,  and  was  almost 
certain  I could  hear  the  sound  of  voices  talking  in  a low 
undertone.  Cautiously  stealing  along,  I began  to  descend 


446 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


the  mountain,  when,  as  I turned  a projecting  angle  of  the 
path,  I saw  the  sentry  on  the  bridge  with  his  musket  at  his 
shoulder,  taking  a steady  and  deliberate  aim  at  some  object 
in  the  direction  of  the  noise.  While  I looked  he  fired;  a 
crashing  sound  of  the  branches  followed  the  report,  and 
something  like  a cry,  and  as  the  echoes  died  away  in  the 
distance  a heavy  mass  tumbled  over  the  cliff,  and  fell  from 
ledge  to  ledge  till  it  rolled  into  the  deep  grass  below.  I 
had  but  time  to  perceive  it  was  the  corpse  of  a man  fully 
armed,  when  the  quick  roll  of  the  drum  beat  to  arms.  In 
an  instant  the  men  were  formed;  the  cavalry  standing 
beside  their  horses,  and  the  officers  crowding  around  me 
for  orders.  It  was  the  discharge  of  the  sentry’s  musket 
had  given  the  alarm;  for,  save  himself,  no  one  had  seen 
anything. 

“Just  then  a wild  unearthly  cry  of  ‘ Ha!  ha!  ’ rang  out 
from  one  mountain  and  was  answered  from  the  other; 
while  the  sounds,  increasing  and  multiplied  by  the  echoes, 
floated  hither  and  thither,  as  though  ten  thousand  voices 
were  shouting  there.  They  ceased ; all  was  still  for  a few 
seconds,  and  then  a hail-storm  of  bullets  tore  through  our 
ranks,  and  the  valley  rang  again  with  the  roar  of  mus- 
ketry. Every  cliff  and  crag,  every  tuft  of  brushwood, 
seemed  to  be  occupied ; while  the  incessant  roll  of  the  fire 
showed  that  our  assailants  were  in  great  numbers.  Resist- 
ance was  vain;  our  enemy  was  unseen;  our  men  were  fall- 
ing at  each  discharge;  what  was  to  be  done?  Nothing 
remained  but  to  push  forward  to  the  Mittenwald,  where, 
the  valley  opening  into  a plain,  we  should  be  able  to 
defend  ourselves  against  any  irregular  troops  that  might 
be  brought  against  us.  The  order  was  given,  and  the  men 
advanced  in  a run,  the  cavalry  leading  the  way.  Meanwhile 
the  fire  of  the  Tyrolese  increased,  and  the  fatal  marksmen 
seldom  missed  a shot;  two  of  our  officers  already  lay  dead, 
and  three  others  dangerously  wounded  could  scarce  keep  up 
with  our  party. 

“‘The  road  is  barricaded  and  entrenched,’  cried  the 
sergeant  of  the  Dragoons,  galloping  back  to  the  main 
body  in  dismay. 

“A  cry  broke  from  the  soldiers  as  they  heard  the  sad 


THE  BARON’S  STORY. 


447 


tidings,  while  some  springing  from  their  ranks  called  out, 
‘ Forward,  and  to  the  storm ! ’ 

“Hushing  to  the  head  of  these  brave  fellows,  I waved 
my  cap,  and  cheered  them  on ; the  others  followed,  and  we 
soon  came  in  sight  of  the  barrier,  which  was  formed  of 
large  trees  thrown  crossways,  and  forming,  by  their  mas- 
sive trunks  and  interwoven  branches,  an  obstacle  far  be- 
yond our  power  to  remove.  To  climb  the  stockade  was 
our  only  chance,  and  on  we  rushed;  but  scarcely  were  we 
within  half-musket-shot,  when  a volley  met  us  directed 
point-blank.  The  leading  files  of  the  column  went  down 
like  one  man,  and  though  others  rushed  eagerly  forward, 
despair  and  desperation  goading  them,  the  murderous  fire 
of  the  long  rifles  dealt  death  at  every  discharge;  and  we 
stood  among  the  cumbered  corpses  of  our  fellow  comrades. 
By  this  time  we  were  attacked  in  rear  as  well  as  front; 
and  now,  all  hope  gone,  it  only  remained  to  sell  life  as 
dearly  as  we  could.  One  infuriate  rush  to  break  through 
the  barricade  had  forced  a kind  of  passage,  through  which, 
followed  by  a dozen  others,  I leaped,  shouting  to  my  men 
to  follow.  The  cry  of  my  triumph  was,  however,  met  by 
a wilder  still,  for  the  same  instant  a party  of  Tyrolese, 
armed  with  the  two-handed  sword  of  their  country,  came 
down  upon  us.  The  struggle  was  a brief  and  bloody  one; 
man  for  man  fell  at  either  side,  but  overcome  by  numbers 
I saw  my  companions  drop  dead  or  wounded  around  me. 
As  for  myself,  I clove  the  leader  through  the  skull  with 
one  stroke.  It  was  the  last  my  arm  ever  dealt;  the  next 
instant  it  was  severed  from  my  body.  I fell  covered  with 
blood,  and  my  assailant  jumped  upon  my  body,  and  draw- 
ing a short  knife  from  his  belt  was  about  to  plunge  it  in 
my  bosom,  when  a shout  from  a wounded  Tyrolese  at 
my  side  arrested  the  stroke,  and  I saw  an  uplifted  arm 
stretched  out  as  if  to  protect  me.  I have  little  memory 
after  this.  I heard  — I think  I hear  still  — the  wild  shouts 
and  the  death -cries  of  my  comrades  as  they  fell  beneath 
the  arm  of  their  enemies.  The  slaughter  was  a dreadful 
one;  of  eight  hundred  and  forty  men,  I alone  survived  that 
terrible  night. 

“Towards  daybreak  I found  myself  lying  in  a cart  upon 


448 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


some  straw,  beside  another  wounded  man  dressed  in  the 
uniform  of  the  Tyrolese  Jagers.  His  head  was  fearfully 
gashed  by  a sabre  cut,  and  a musket  ball  had  shattered  his 
forearm.  As  I looked  at  him,  a grim  smile  of  savage  glee 
lit  up  his  pale  features,  and  he  looked  from  my  wound  to 
his  own  with  a horrid  significance.  All  my  efforts  to 
learn  the  fate  of  my  comrades  were  fruitless;  he  could 
neither  comprehend  me  nor  I him,  and  it  was  only  by 
conjecturing  from  the  tones  and  gestures  of  those  who 
occasionally  came  up  to  the  cart  to  speak  to  him,  that  I 
could  learn  the  fearful  reality. 

“ That  day  and  the  following  one  we  journeyed  onwards, 
but  I knew  naught  of  time.  The  fever  of  my  wound, 
increased  by  some  styptic  they  had  used  to  stop  the  bleed- 
ing, had  brought  on  delirium,  and  I raved  of  the  fight,  and 
strove  to  regain  my  legs  and  get  free.  To  this  paroxysm, 
which  lasted  many  days,  a low  lingering  fever  succeeded, 
in  which  all  consciousness  was  so  slight  that  no  memory 
has  remained  to  tell  of  my  sensations. 

“My  first  vivid  sensation  — it  is  before  me  at  this 
minute  — was  on  entering  the  little  mountain  village  of 
the  Marien  Kreutz.  1 was  borne  on  a litter  by  four  men, 
for  the  path  was  inaccessible  except  to  foot  passengers. 
It  was  evening,  and  the  long  procession  of  the  wounded 
men  wound  its  way  up  the  mountain  defile  and  along  the 
little  street  of  the  village,  which  now  was  crowded  by  the 
country  people,  who  with  sad  and  tearful  faces  stood  look- 
ing on  their  sons  and  brothers,  or  asking  for  those  whom 
they  were  never  to  behold  again.  The  little  chapel  of  the 
village  was  converted  into  a hospital,  and  here  beds  were 
brought  from  every  cabin,  and  all  the  preparations  for 
tending  the  sick  began  with  a readiness  that  surprised  me. 

“ As  they  bore  me  up  the  aisle  of  the  chapel,  a voice 
called  out  some  words  in  Tyrolese;  the  men  halted  and 
turned  round,  and  then  carried  me  back  into  a small 
chapelry,  where  a single  sick  man  was  lying,  whom  in 
an  instant  I recognized  as  my  wounded  companion  of  the 
road.  With  a nod  of  rude  but  friendly  recognition,  he 
welcomed  me  and  I was  placed  near  him  on  a straw  mat- 
tress stretched  beneath  the  altar. 


TIIE  BARON’S  STORY. 


449 


“ Why  I had  been  spared  in  the  fearful  carnage,  and  for 
what  destiny  I was  reserved,  were  thoughts  which  rapidly 
gave  way  to  others  of  deep  despondency  at  my  fortune,  — 
a despair  that  made  me  indifferent  to  life.  The  dreadful 
issue  of  the  expedition  would,  I well  knew,  have  ruined 
more  prosperous  careers  than  mine  in  that  service,  where 
want  of  success  was  the  greatest  of  all  crimes.  Careless 
of  my  fate,  I lived  on  in  gloomy  apathy,  not  one  gleam  of 
hope  or  comfort  to  shine  upon  the  darkness  of  my  misery. 

“This  brooding  melancholy  took  entire  possession  of 
me,  and  I took  no  note  of  the  scenes  around  me.  My  ear 
was  long  since  accustomed  to  the  sad  sounds  of  the  sick- 
beds; the  cries  of  suffering,  and  the  low  moanings  of 
misery  had  ceased  to  move  me;  even  the  wild  and  frantic 
ravings  of  the  wounded  man  near  broke  not  in  upon  my 
musings,  and  I lived  like  one  immured  within  a solitary 
dungeon. 

“ I lay  thus  one  night  — my  sadness  and  gloom  weightier 
than  ever  on  my  broken  spirits  — listening  to  the  echoed 
sounds  of  suffering  that  rose  into  the  vaulted  roof,  and 
wishing  for  death,  to  call  me  away  from  such  a scene  of 
misery,  when  I heard  the  low  chanting  of  a priest  coming 
along  the  aisle;  and  the  moment  after  the  footsteps  of 
several  persons  came  near,  and  then  two  acolytes,  carry- 
ing lighted  tapers,  appeared,  followed  by  a venerable  man 
robed  in  white,  and  bearing  in  his  hands  a silver  chalice. 
Two  other  priests  followed  him,  chanting  the  last  service, 
and  behind  all  there  came  a female  figure  dressed  in  deep 
mourning;  she  was  tall  and  graceful-looking,  and  her  step 
had  the  firm  tread  of  youth,  but  her  head  was  bowed  down 
with  sorrow,  and  she  held  her  veil  pressed  closely  over  her 
face.  They  gathered  round  the  bed  of  the  wounded  man, 
and  the  priest  took  hold  of  his  hand  and  lifted  it  slowly 
from  the  bed;  and  letting  it  go,  it  fell  heavily  down  again, 
with  a dull  sound.  The  old  man  bent  over  the  bed,  touched 
the  pale  features,  and  gazed  into  the  eyes,  and  then  with 
clasped  hands  he  sunk  down  on  his  knees  and  prayed 
aloud;  the  others  knelt  beside  him, — all  save  one;  she 
threw  herself  with  frantic  grief  upon  the  dead  body  (for 
he  was  dead)  and  wept  passionately.  In  vain  they  strove 

2a 


450 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


to  calm  her  sorrow,  or  even  withdraw  her  from  the  spot. 
She  clung  madly  to  it,  and  would  not  be  induced  to 
leave  it. 

“ I think  I see  her  still  before  me,  — her  long  hair,  black 
as  night,  streaming  back  from  her  pale  forehead,  and  hang- 
ing down  her  shoulders;  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  dead  man’s 
face,  and  her  hands  pressed  hard  upon  her  heart,  as  if  to 
lull  its  agony.  In  all  the  wild  transport  of  her  grief  she 
was  beautiful;  for  although  pale  to  sickness,  and  worn 
with  watching,  her  large  and  lustrous  eyes,  her  nose 
straight  and  finely  chiselled  like  the  features  of  an  anticpie 
cameo,  and  her  mouth,  where  mingled  pride  and  sorrow 
trembled,  gave  her  an  expression  of  loveliness  I cannot 
convey.  Such  was  she,  as  she  watched  beside  her 
brother’s  death-bed  day  and  night,  motionless  and  still; 
for  as  the  first  burst  of  grief  was  over  she  seemed  to 
nerve  her  courage  to  the  task;  and  even  when  the  hour 
came,  and  they  bore  the  body  away  to  its  last  resting- 
place,  not  a sigh  or  sob  escaped  her. 

“The  vacant  spot  — though  it  had  been  tenanted  by 
suffering  and  misery  — brought  gloom  to  my  heart.  I 
had  been  accustomed  each  day  to  look  for  him  at  sunrise, 
and  each  evening  to  see  him  as  the  light  of  day  declined; 
and  I sorrowed  like  one  deserted  and  alone.  Not  all 
alone!  for,  as  if  by  force  of  habit,  when  evening  came, 
she  was  at  her  place  near  the  altar. 

“The  fever,  and  my  own  anxious  thoughts,  preyed  on 
my  mind  that  night;  and  as  I lay  awake  I felt  parched 
and  hot,  and  wished  to  drink,  and  I endeavored  with  my 
only  arm  to  reach  the  cup  beside  me.  She  saw  the  effort, 
and  sprang  towards  me  at  once;  and  as  she  held  it  to  my 
lips,  I remembered  then  that  often  in  the  dreary  nights  of 
my  sickness  I had  seen  her  at  my  bedside,  nursing  me  and 
tending  me.  I muttered  a word  of  gratitude  in  German, 
when  she  started  suddenly,  and  stooping  down,  said  in  a 
clear  accent,  — 

“‘  Bist  du  ein  Deutscher  (Are  you  a German)?  ’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’  said  I,  mournfully,  for  I saw  her  meaning. 

“‘Shame!  shame!’  cried  she,  holding  up  her  hands  in 
horror.  ‘ If  the  wolves  ravage  the  flocks  it  is  but  their 


THE  BARON’S  STORY. 


451 


nature;  but  that  our  own  kindred,  our  very  flesh  and 
blood,  should  do  this  — ’ 

“ I turned  my  head  away  in  very  sorrow  and  self-abase- 
ment, and  a convulsive  sob  burst  from  my  heart. 

Nay,  nay,  not  so,’  said  she,  ‘ a poor  peasant  like  me 
cannot  judge  what  motives  may  have  influenced  you  and 
others  like  you;  and  after  all,’  and  she  spoke  the  words  in 
a trembling  voice,  — ‘ and  after  all,  you  succored  him  when 
you  believed  him  sick  and  weary.  ’ 

“‘  I!  how  so?  It  never  was  in  my  power  — ’ 

“‘  Yes,  yes,’  cried  she,  passionately;  ‘ it  was  you.  This 
gourde  was  yours;  he  told  me  so;  he  spoke  of  you  a hun- 
dred times.’  And  a,t  the  instant,  she  held  up  the  little 
flask  I had  given  to  the  pilgrim  in  the  valley. 

“ ‘ And  was  the  pilgrim  then  — ’ 

“‘Yes,’  said  she,  as  a proud  flash  lit  up  her  features, 
‘ he  was  my  brother;  many  a weary  mile  he  wandered  over 
mountain  and  moor  to  track  you;  faint  and  hungry,  he 
halted  not,  following  your  footsteps  from  the  first  hour  you 
entered  our  land.  Think  you  but  for  him  that  you  had 
been  spared  that  night’s  slaughter,  or  that  for  any  cause 
but  his  a Tyrolese  girl  had  watched  beside  your  sick  bed, 
and  prayed  for  your  recovery?’ 

“The  whole  truth  now  flashed  upon  me;  every  circum- 
stance doubtful  before  became  at  once  clear  to  my  mind, 
and  I eagerly  asked  the  fate  of  my  comrades. 

“A  gloomy  shake  of  the  head  was  the  only  reply. 

All?  ’ said  I,  trembling  at  the  word. 

“ ‘ All ! ’ repeated  she,  in  an  accent  whose  pride  seemed 
almost  amounting  to  ferocity. 

“‘Would  I had  perished  with  them!’  cried  I,  in  the 
bitterness  of  my  heart,  and  I turned  my  face  away  and 
gave  myself  up  to  my  grief. 

“As  if  sorry  for  the  burst  of  feeling  she  had  caused  me, 
she  sat  down  beside  my  bed,  took  my  hand  in  hers,  and 
placed  her  cold  lips  upon  it,  while  she  murmured  some 
words  of  comfort.  Like  water  to  the  seared,  parched  lips 
of  some  traveller  in  the  desert,  the  accents  fell  upon  my 
almost  broken  heart,  suggesting  a thought  of  hope  where 
all  was  darkness  and  despair.  I listened  to  each  word 


452 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


with  a tremulous  fear  lest  she  should  cease  to  speak,  and 
dreading  that  my  ecstasy  were  but  a dream.  From  that 
hour,  I wished  to  live ; a changed  spirit  came  over  me,  and 
I felt  as  though  with  higher  and  more  ennobling  thoughts  I 
should  once  more  tread  the  earth.  Yes,  from  the  humble 
lips  of  a peasant  girl  I learned  to  feel  that  the  path  I once 
deemed  the  only  road  to  heroism  and  high  ambition  could 
be  but  ‘ the  bandit’s  trade,’  who  sells  his  blood  for  gain. 
That  war  which  animated  by  high-souled  patriotism  can 
call  forth  every  sentiment  of  a great  and  generous  nature, 
becomes  in  an  unjust  cause  the  lowest  slavery  and  degrada- 
tion. Lydchen  seldom  quitted  my  bedside,  for  my  malady 
took  many  turns,  and  it  was  long  — many  months  — after 
that  I was  enabled  to  leave  my  'bed  and  move  up  and  down 
the  chapel. 

“Meanwhile  the  successes  of  our  army  had  gradually 
reduced  the  whole  country  beneath  French  rule,  and  except 
in  the  very  fastnesses  of  the  mountains  the  Tyrolese  had 
nowhere  they  could  call  their  own.  Each  day  some  peas- 
ant would  arrive  from  the  valleys  with  information  that 
fresh  troops  were  pouring  in  from  Germany,  and  the  hopes 
of  the  patriotic  party  fell  lower  and  lower.  At  last  one 
evening  as  I sat  on  the  steps  of  the  little  altar,  listening  to 
Lydchen  reading  for  me  some  Tyrol  legend,  a wild  shout 
in  the  street  of  the  village  attracted  our  notice,  which 
seemed  to  gain  strength  as  it  came  nearer.  She  started  up 
suddenly,  and  throwing  down  her  book  rushed  from  the 
chapel.  In  another  moment  she  was  back  beside  me,  her 
face  pale  as  a corpse,  and  her  limbs  trembling  with  fear. 

“ ‘ What  has  happened?  Speak,  for  God’s  sake!  what  is 
it?  ’ said  I. 

“ ‘ The  French  have  shot  the  prisoners  in  the  Platz  at 
Innspruck;  twenty-eight  have  fallen  this  morning,’  cried 
she,  ‘seven  from  this  very  village;  and  now  they  cry  aloud 
for  your  blood ; hear  them,  there ! ’ 

“ And  as  she  spoke  a frightful  yell  burst  from  the  crowd 
without,  and  already  they  stood  at  the  entrance  to  the 
chapel,  which  even  at  such  a time  they  had  not  forgotten 
was  a sanctuary.  The  very  wounded  men  sat  up  in  their 
beds  and  joined  their  feeble  cries  to  those  without,  and 


THE  BARON’S  STORY. 


453 


the  terrible  shout  of  ‘blood  for  blood!  ’ rang  through  the 
vaulted  roof. 

“ ‘ I am  ready,  * said  I,  springing  up  from  the  low  step 
of  the  altar.  ‘ They  must  not  desecrate  this  holy  spot  with 
such  a crime.  I am  ready  to  go  where  you  will.’ 

“‘  No,  no/  cried  Lydchen;  ‘ you  are  not  like  our  enemies. 
You  wish  us  naught  of  evil;  your  heart  is  with  the  strug- 
gle of  a brave  people,  who  fight  but  for  their  homes  and 
Fatherland.  Be  of  us,  then ; declare  that  you  are  with 
us.  Oh,  do  this,  and  these  will  be  your  brothers  and  I 
your  sister;  ay,  more  than  sister  ever  was.’ 

It  cannot  be;  no,  never/  said  I;  ‘it  is  not  when  life  is 
in  the  balance  that  fealty  can  change.’ 

“With  difficulty  1 freed  myself  from  the  clasp  of  her 
arms,  for  in  her  grief  she  had  thrown  herself  at  my  feet, 
when  suddenly  we  heard  the  deep  accents  of  the  aged 
priest,  as  he  stood  upon  the  steps  of  the  altar,  and  com- 
manded silence.  His  tones  were  those  of  severity  and 
sternness,  and  I could  mark  that  not  a murmur  was  raised 
as  he  continued. 

“‘You  are  safe/  whispered  Lydchen;  ‘till  to-morrow 
you  are  safe;  before  that  you  must  be  far  away.’ 

“ The  respite  of  the  priest  was  merely  to  give  me  time  to 
prepare  for  death,  which  it  was  decreed  I should  suffer  the 
following  morning  in  the  Platz  of  the  village. 

“ Scarcely  had  evening  begun  to  fall  when  Lydchen  ap- 
proached my  bed,  and  deposited  a small  bundle  upon  it, 
whispering  gently,  ‘ Lose  no  time;  put  on  these  clothes, 
and  wait  for  my  return.’ 

“The  little  chapelry  where  I lay  communicated  by  a 
small  door  with  the  dwelling  of  the  priest,  and  by  her 
passing  through  this  I saw  that  the  Father  was  himself 
conniving  at  the  plan  of  my  escape.  By  the  imperfect 
glimmer  of  the  fading  day  I could  perceive  that  they  were 
her  brother’s  clothes  she  had  brought  me;  the  jacket  was 
yet  stained  with  his  blood.  I was  long  in  equipping  my- 
self, with  my  single  arm,  and  I heard  her  voice  more  than 
once  calling  to  me  to  hasten,  ere  I was  ready. 

“At  length  I arose,  and  passing  through  the  door  en- 
tered the  priest’s  house,  where  Lydchen,  dressed  in  hat 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


404 

and  mantle,  stood  ready  for  the  road.  As  I endeavored 
to  remonstrate  she  pressed  her  hand  on  my  mouth,  and 
walking  on  tiptoe  led  me  forward;  we  emerged  into  a little 
garden,  crossing  which  she  opened  a wicket  that  led  into 
the  road.  There  a peasant  was  in  waiting,  who  carried  a 
small  bundle  on  his  shoulder,  and  was  armed  with  the 
long  staff  used  in  mountain  travelling.  Again,  making  a 
sign  for  me  to  be  silent,  she  moved  on  before  me,  and  soon 
turning  off  the  road  entered  a foot-track  in  the  mountain. 
The  fresh  breeze  of  the  night  and  the  sense  of  liberty 
nerved  me  to  exertion,  and  I walked  on  till  day  was  break- 
ing. Our  path  generally  lay  in  a descending  direction, 
and  I felt  little  fatigue,  when  at  sunrise  Lydchen  told  me 
that  we  might  rest  for  some  hours,  as  our  guide  could  now 
detect  the  approach  of  any  party  for  miles  round,  and  pro- 
vide for  our  concealment.  No  pursuit,  however,  was  un- 
dertaken in  that  direction,  the  peasants  in  all  likelihood 
deeming  that  I would  turn  my  steps  towards  Lahn,  where 
a strong  French  garrison  was  stationed;  whereas  we  were 
proceeding  in  the  direction  of  Saltzbourg,  the  very  longest 
and  therefore  the  least  likely  route  through  the  Tyrol. 

“Day  succeeded  day,  and  on  we  went.  Not  one  living 
thing  did  we  meet  in  our  lonely  path.  Already  our  little 
stock  of  provisions  was  falling  low,  when  we  came  in  sight 
of  the  hamlet  of  Altendorf,  only  a single  day’s  march 
from  the  lake  of  Saltzbourg.  The  village,  though  high  in 
the  mountain,  lay  exactly  beneath  us  as  we  went,  and  from 
the  height  we  stood  on  we  could  see  the  little  streets  of  the 
town  and  its  market-place  like  a map  below  us.  Scarcely 
had  the  guide  thrown  his  eyes  downwards  than  he  stopped 
short,  and  pointing  to  the  town,  cried  out,  ‘ The  French! 
the  French!  ’ and  true  enough,  a large  party  of  infantry 
were  bivouacked  in  the  streets,  and  several  horses  were 
picketed  in  the  gardens  about.  While  the  peasant  crept 
cautiously  forward  to  inspect  the  place  nearer,  I stood  be- 
side Lydchen,  who,  with  her  hands  pressed  closely  on  her 
face,  spoke  not  a word. 

“‘We  part  here!  ’ said  she,  with  a strong,  full  accent, 
as  though  determined  to  let  no  weakness  appear  in  her 
words. 


THE  BARON’S  STORY. 


455 


“‘  Part,  Lydchen!  ’ cried  I,  in  an  agony;  for  up  to  that 
moment  I believed  that  she  never  intended  returning  to 
the  Tyrol. 

“‘  Yes.  Thinkest  thou  that  I hold  so  light  my  home 
and  country  as  thou  dost?  Didst  thou  believe  that  a Tyrol 
girl  would  live  ’midst  those  who  laid  waste  her  Father- 
land,  and  left  herself  an  orphan,  without  one  of  her  kin- 
dred remaining?  ’ 

“ ‘ Are  there  no  ties  save  those  of  blood,  Lydchen?  Is 
your  heart  so  steeled  against  the  stranger  that  the  devo- 
tion, the  worship,  of  a life  long  would  not  move  you  from 
your  purpose? ’ 

“‘Thou  hast  refused  me  once,’  said  she,  proudly;  ‘I 
offered  to  be  all  your  own  when  thou  couldst  have  made 
me  so  with  honor.  If  thou  wert  the  Kaiser  Franz,  I would 
not  have  thee  now.  ’ 

“‘Oh,  speak  not  thus,  Lydchen,  to  him  whose  life  you 
saved,  and  made  him  feel  that  life  is  a blessing!  Remem- 
ber that  if  your  heart  be  cold  to  me,  you  have  made  mine 
your  own  forever.  I will  not  leave  you.  No  — ’ 

“ ‘ Is  it  that  thou  mayst  bring  me  yonder  and  show  me 
amongst  thy  comrades, — the  Tyrol  maiden  that  thou  hast 
captured,  thy  spoil  of  war?  ’ 

Oh,  Lydchen,  dearest,  why  will  you  speak  thus  — ’ 
Never!  ’ cried  she,  as  her  eyes  flashed  proudly,  and 
her  cheek  flushed  red,  ‘ never  ! I have  the  blood  of  Hofer 
in  my  veins;  and  bethinkest  thou  I would  stoop  to  be  a 
jest,  a mockery,  before  thy  high-born  dames,  who  would 
not  deem  me  fit  to  be  their  waiting- woman?  Farewell,  sir. 
I hoped  to  part  with  thee  less  in  anger  than  in  sorrow.’ 
Then  will  I remain,’  said  I. 

“ ‘ Too  late,  too  late  ! ’ cried  she,  waving  her  hand, 
mournfully;  ‘the  hour  is  past.  See,  there  come  your 
troops;  a moment  more,  and  I shall  be  taken.  You  wish 
not  this,  at  least  — ’ 

“As  she  spoke,  a cavalry  detachment  was  seen  coming 
up  the  valley  at  a canter.  A few  minutes  more  and  she 
would  be  discovered.  I knew  too  well  the  ruffian  natures 
of  the  soldiery  to  hazard  such  a risk.  I caught  her  to  my 
arms  with  one  last  embrace,  and  the  next  moment  dashed 


456 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


down  the  path  towards  the  Dragoons.  I turned  my  head 
once,  but  she  was  gone;  the  peasant  guide  had  left  the 
breach  of  the  chasm,  and  they  both  were  lost  to  my 
view. 

“My  story  is  now  soon  told.  I was  tried  by  a court- 
martial,  honorably  acquitted,  and  restored  to  my  grade, — 
en  retraite,  however,  for  my  wound  had  disabled  me  from 
active  service.  For  three  years  I lived  in  retirement  near 
Mayence,  the  sad  memory  of  one  unhappy  event  embitter- 
ing every  hour  of  my  life. 

“Tn  the  early  part  of  1809  a strong  division  of  the 
French  army,  commanded  by  my  old  friend  and  companion 
Lefebvre,  entered  Mayence,  on  their  way  to  Austria;  and 
as  my  health  was  now  restored,  I yielded  to  his  persuasion 
to  join  his  staff  as  first  aide-de-camp.  Indeed,  a careless- 
ness and  indifference  to  my  fortune  had  made  me  submit 
to  anything,  and  I assented  to  every  arrangement  of  the 
general,  as  if  I were  totally  unconcerned  in  it  all.  I need 
not  trace  the  events  of  that  rapid  and  brilliant  campaign. 
I will  only  remark  that  Eckmulil  and  Ratisbon  both  brought 
back  all  the  soldier’s  ardor  to  my  heart;  and  once  more 
the  crash  of  battle,  and  the  din  of  marching  columns, 
aroused  my  dormant  enthusiasm. 

“In  the  month  of  April  a corps  d’armee  of  twenty  thou- 
sand men  entered  the  Tyrol,  and  pushed  forward  to  the 
Niederwald,  where  Lefebvre  had  his  headquarters.  I can- 
not stay  to  speak  of  the  terrible  scenes  of  that  period,  the 
most  fearful  in  the  spirit  of  resistance  that  ever  our  arms 
encountered.  Detachments  were  cutoff  every  day;  whole 
columns  disappeared,  and  never  again  were  heard  of;  no 
bivouac  was  safe  from  a nightly  attack,  and  even  the  sen- 
tinels at  the  gates  of  Innspruck  were  repeatedly  found 
dead  on  their  posts.  But,  worse  than  all,  daily  instances 
of  assassination  occurred  by  peasants,  who  sometimes 
dressed  as  sutlers  entered  the  camp,  and  took  the  oppor- 
tunity to  stab  or  shoot  our  officers,  caring  nothing,  as  it 
seemed,  for  the  certain  death  that  awaited  them.  These 
became  of  such  frequent  occurrence  that  scarce  a report 
did  not  contain  one  or  two  such  casualties,  and  conse- 
quently every  precaution  that  could  be  thought  of  was 


THE  BARON’S  STORY. 


457 


adopted;  and  every  peasant  taken  with  arms  — in  a coun- 
try, too,  where  none  are  unarmed  — was  shot  without  trial 
of  any  kind  whatever.  That  little  mercy,  or  indeed  jus- 
tice, was  meted  out  to  the  people,  I need  only  say  that 
Girardon  was  commandant  of  the  garrison,  and  daily  in- 
spected the  executions  on  parade. 

“It  happened  that  one  morning  this  savage  old  officer 
was  stabbed  by  an  Austrian  peasant,  who  had  long  been 
employed  as  a camp  servant  and  trusted  in  situations  of 
considerable  confidence.  The  man  was  immediately  led 
out  for  execution  to  the  Platz,  where  was  another  prisoner, 
— a poor  boy  found  rambling  within  the  lines,  and  unable 
to  give  any  account  of  his  presence  there.  Girardon,  how- 
ever, was  only  slightly  wounded,  and  countermanded  the 
execution  of  his  assassin, — not  from  motives  of  forgive- 
ness, but  in  order  to  defer  it  till  he  was  himself  able  to  be 
present  and  witness  it;  and  upon  me,  as  next  in  command, 
devolved  the  melancholy  duty  of  being  present  on  the 
parade.  The  brief  note  I received  from  Girardon  reminded 
me  of  a former  instance  of  weakness  on  my  part,  and 
contained  a sneering  hope  that  I ‘ had  learned  some  por- 
tion of  a soldier’s  duty  since  I was  reduced  to  the  ranks  at 
Strasbourg.  ’ 

“When  I reached  the  Platz,  I found  the  officers  of  the 
Staff  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  where  a table  was 
placed,  on  which  the  order  for  the  execution  was  lying, 
awaiting  my  signature. 

“ ‘ The  prisoner  begs  a word  with  the  officer  in  com- 
mand,’ said  the  orderly  sergeant. 

“‘  I cannot  accede  to  his  request,’  said  I,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  and  knowing  how  totally  such  an  interview 
would  unman  me. 

“ ‘ He  implores  it,  sir,  with  the  utmost  earnestness,  and 
says  he  has  some  important  secret  to  reveal  before  his 
death.’ 

“‘The  old  story, — anything  for  five  minutes  more  of 
life  and  sunshine,’  said  an  officer  beside  me. 

“ ‘ I must  refuse,  ’ said  I,  ‘ and  desire  that  these  requests 
may  not  be  brought  before  me.’ 

“ ‘ It  is  the  only  way,  Colonel,’  said  another;  ‘and  indeed 


458 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


such  intervals  have  little  mercy  in  them;  both  parties  suf- 
fer the  more  from  them.’ 

“This  speech  seemed  to  warrant  my  selfish  determina- 
tion, and  I seized  the  pen  and  wrote  my  name  to  the  order; 
and  then  handing  it  to  the  officer,  I covered  my  face  with 
my  hands,  and  sat  with  my  head  leaning  on  the  table.  A 
bustle  in  front,  and  a wild  cry  of  agony,  told  me  that  the 
preparations  were  begun,  and  quick  as  lightning  the  roar 
of  a platoon  fire  followed.  A shriek,  shrill  and  piercing, 
mingled  with  the  crash,  and  then  came  a cry  from  the 
soldiers,  ‘It  is  a woman  ! ’ 

“With  madness  in  my  brain,  and  a vague  dread,  I know 
not  of  what,  I dashed  forward  through  the  crowd;  and 
there,  on  the  pavement,  weltering  in  her  blood,  lay  the 
body  of  Lydchen.  She  was  stone  dead,  her  bosom  shat- 
tered by  a dozen  bullets.  I fell  upon  the  corpse;  the  blood 
poured  from  my  mouth  in  torrents,  and  when  I arose  it 
was  with  a broken  heart,  whose  sufferings  are  bringing  me 
to  the  grave.” 

This  sad  story  I have  related  without  any  endeavor  to 
convey  to  my  reader  either  the  tone  of  him  who  told  it,  or 
the  dreadful  conflict  of  feeling  which  at  many  times  pre- 
vented his  continuing.  In  some  few  places  the  very  words 
he  made  use  of  were  those  I have  employed,  since  they 
have  remained  fast  rooted  in  my  memory,  and  were  associ- 
ated with  the  facts  themselves.  Except  in  these  slight 
particulars,  I have  told  the  tale  as  it  lives  in  my  recol- 
lection, coupled  with  one  of  the  saddest  nights  I ever 
remember. 

It  was  near  morning  when  he  concluded,  tired  and  ex- 
hausted, yet  to  all  appearance  calmer  and  more  tranquil 
from  the  free  current  of  that  sorrow  he  could  no  longer 
control.  “Leave  me,  now,”  said  he,  “for  a few  hours;  my 
servant  shall  call  you  before  I go.” 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  I offered  to  accompany  him, 
alleging  — as  with  an  easy  conscience  I could  do  — that  no 
one  was  less  bound  by  any  ties  of  place  or  time.  He  re- 
fused my  offer  of  companionship,  by  saying  that  strict  soli- 
tude alone  restored  him  after  one  of  his  attacks,  and  that 


THE  BARON’S  STORY. 


450 


the  least  excitement  invariably  brought  on  a relapse.  “ We 
shall  meet  soon  again,  I hope,”  was  the  extent  of  any 
promise  I could  obtain  from  him;  and  I saw  that  to  press 
the  matter  further  was  both  unfair  and  indelicate. 

Though  I lay  down  in  bed,  I could  not  sleep;  a strange 
feeling  of  dread,  an  anxious  fear  of  something  undefined, 
was  over  me;  and  at  every  noise  I arose  and  looked  out  of 
the  window  and  down  the  streets,  which  were  all  still  and 
silent.  The  terrible  events  of  the  tale  were  like  a night- 
mare on  my  mind,  and  I could  not  dismiss  them.  At  last 
I fell  into  a half  slumber,  from  which  I was  awakened  by 
the  Baron’s  servant.  His  master  was  dangerously  ill;  an- 
other attack  had  seized  him,  and  he  was  lying  senseless. 

I hastened  to  the  room,  where  I found  the  sick  man 
stretched  half-dressed  upon  the  bed,  his  face  purple,  and 
his  eye-balls  strained  to  bursting;  his  breathing  was  heavy, 
and  broken  by  a low  tremulous  quaver,  that  made  each 
respiration  like  a half-suppressed  sigh.  While  I opened 
the  window  to  give  him  air,  and  bathed  his  forehead  with 
cold  water,  I despatched  a servant  for  a doctor. 

The  physician  was  soon  beside  me;  but  I quickly  saw 
that  the  case  was  almost  hopeless.  His  former  disease 
had  developed  a new  and,  if  possible,  worse  one, — aneu- 
rism of  the  heart. 

I will  not  speak  of  the  hourly  vacillations  of  hope  and 
fear  in  which  I passed  that  day  and  the  following  one. 
He  had  never  regained  consciousness;  but  the  most  threat- 
ening symptoms  had  considerably  abated,  and  in  the  phy- 
sician’s eyes  he  was  better.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  third 
day,  as  I sat  beside  his  bed,  sleep  overtook  me  in  my 
watching,  and  I awoke,  feeling  a hand  within  my  own : it 
was  Elgenheim’s. 

Overjoyed  at  this  sign  of  returning  health,  I asked  him 
how  he  felt.  A faint  sigh,  and  a motion  of  his  hand 
towards  his  side,  was  all  his  reply.  Hot  daring  to  speak 
more,  I drew  the  curtain  and  sat  still  and  silent  at  his 
side.  The  window,  by  the  physician’s  order,  was  left 
open,  and  a gentle  breeze  stirred  the  curtains  lightly  and 
gave  a refreshing  air  within  the  apartment.  A noise  of 
feet  and  a hurried  movement  in  the  street  induced  me  to 


460 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


look  out,  and  I now  saw  tlie  head  of  an  infantry  battalion 
turning  into  the  Platz.  They  marched  in  slow  time,  and 
with  arms  reversed.  With  a throb  of  horror,  I remem- 
bered the  deserter!  Yes,  there  he  was  ! He  marched  be- 
tween two  dismounted  gendarmes,  without  coat  or  cap,  a 
broad  placard  fixed  on  his  breast,  inscribed  with  his  name 
and  his  crime.  I turned  instantly  towards  the  bed,  dread- 
ing lest  already  the  tramp  of  the  marching  men  had  reached 
the  sick  man’s  ear;  but  he  was  sleeping  calmly,  and  breath- 
ing without  effort  of  any  kind. 

The  thought  seized  me  to  speak  to  the  officer  in  com- 
mand of  the  party,  and  I rushed  down,  and  making  my 
way  through  the  crowd,  approached  the  Staff  as  they  were 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  Platz.  But  my  excited  man- 
ner, my  look  of  wild  anxiety,  and  my  little  knowledge 
of  the  language,  combined  to  make  my  appeal  of  little 
moment. 

“If  it  be  true,  sir,”  said  a gruff  old  veteran,  with  a 
grisly  beard,  “that  he  was  an  officer  of  the  empire,  the  fire 
of  a platoon  can  scarcely  hurt  his  nerves.” 

“Yes,  but,”  said  I,  “there  is  a circumstance  of  his  life 
which  makes  this  tenfold  more  dangerous.  I cannot  ex- 
plain it;  I am  not  at  liberty  — ” 

“I  do  not  desire  to  learn  your  secrets,  sir,”  replied  the 
old  man,  rudely;  “stand  back  and  suffer  me  to  do  my 
duty.” 

I turned  to  the  others,  but  they  could  give  me  neither 
advice  nor  assistance,  and  already  the  square  was  lined 
with  soldiers,  and  the  men  of  the  “ death  party  ” were  or- 
dered to  stand  out. 

“ Give  me  at  least  time  enough  to  remove  my  friend  to  a 
distant  chamber,  if  you  will  not  do  more,”  said  I,  driven 
to  madness;  but  no  attention  was  paid  to  my  words,  and 
the  muster  roll  continued  to  be  read  out. 

I rushed  back  to  the  inn,  and  up  the  stairs ; but  what 
was  my  horror  to  hear  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  tramp 
of  feet  in  the  sick  room  I had  left  in  silence  ! As  I en- 
tered, I saw  the  landlord  and  the  servant,  assisted  by  the 
doctor,  endeavoring  to  hold  down  the  baron  on  his  bed, 
who  with  almost  superhuman  strength  pushed  them  from 


TIIE  BARON’S  STORY. 


4G1 


him  in  his  efforts  to  rise.  His  features  were  wild  to  in- 
sanity, and  the  restless  darting  of  his  glistening  eye 
showed  that  he  was  under  the  excitement  of  delirium. 

“The  effort  may  kill  him,”  whispered  the  doctor  in  my 
ear;  “this  struggle  may  be  his  death.” 

“ Leave  me  free,  sir  ! ” shouted  the  sick  man.  “ Who 
dares  to  lay  hands  on  me?  Stand  aside  there  ! the  peloton 
will  take  ground  to  the  right,”  continued  he,  raising  his 
voice  as  if  commanding  on  parade.  “ Ground  arms  ! ” 

Just  at  this  instant  the  heavy  clank  of  the  firelocks 
was  heard  without,  as  though  in  obedience  to  his  word. 
“Hark!”  said  he,  raising  his  hand, — “Not  a word!  silence 
in  the  ranks  ! ” And  in  the  deadly  stillness  we  could  now 
hear  the  sentence  of  death,  as  it  was  read  aloud  by  the 
adjutant.  A hoarse  roll  of  the  drum  followed,  and  then 
the  tramp  of  the  party  as  they  led  forward  the  prisoner,  to 
every  step  of  which  the  sick  man  kept  time  with  his  hand. 
We  did  not  dare  to  move;  we  knew  not  at  what  instant  our 
resistance  might  be  his  death. 

“ Shoulder  arms ! ” shouted  out  the  officer  from  the  Platz. 
“Take  the  orders  from  me  ! ” cried  Elgenheim,  wildly. 
“This  duty  is  mine;  no  man  shall  say  I shrank  from  it.” 

“ Present  arms ! Fire  ! ” 

“ Fire ! ” shouted  Elgenheim,  with  a yell  that  rose  above 
the  roll  of  musketry;  and  then  with  a groan  of  agony,  he 
cried  out,  “There,  there!  it’s  over  now!”  and  fell  back 
dead  into  our  arms. 

Thus  died  the  leader  of  the  stormers  at  Elcliingen, — the 
man  who  carried  the  Hill  of  Asperne  against  an  Austrian 
battery.  He  sleeps  now  in  the  little  churchyard  of  the 
Marien  Hiilfe  at  Cassel. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


THE  RAPACIOUS  OFFICER. 

I left  Cassel  with  a heart  far  heavier  than  I had  brought 
into  it  some  weeks  before.  The  poor  fellow  whose  remains 
I followed  to  the  grave  was  ever  in  my  thoughts,  and  all 
our  pleasant  rambles  and  our  familiar  intercourse  were 
now  shadowed  by  the  gloom  of  his  sad  destiny.  So  must 
it  ever  be.  He  who  seeks  the  happiness  of  his  life  upon 
the  world’s  highways  must  learn  to  carry,  as  best  he  may, 
the  weary  load  of  trouble  that  “flesh  is  heir  to.”  There 
must  be  storm  for  sunshine;  and  for  the  bright  days  and 
warm  airs  of  summer  he  must  feel  the  lowering  skies  and 
cutting  winds  of  winter. 

I set  out  on  foot,  muttering  as  I went  the  lines  of  poor 
Marguerite’s  song,  which  my  own  depression  had  brought 
to  memory : — 

“ Mein  Ruh  ist  hin. 

Mein  Herz  ist  seliwer  ; 

Ich  finde  sie  nimmer,  und,  niramer  mehr.” 

The  words  recalled  the  Faust,  the  Faust  the  Brocken ; 
and  so  I thought  I could  not  do  better  than  set  out  thither. 
I was  already  within  three  days’  march  of  the  Hartz,  and 
besides,  I should  like  to  see  Gottingen  once  more,  and  have 
a peep  at  my  old  friends  there. 

It  was  only  as  I reached  Miinden  to  breakfast  that  I re- 
membered it  was  Sunday;  and  so  when  I had  finished  my 
meal  I joined  my  host  and  his  household  to  church.  What 
a simplicity  is  there  in  the  whole  Protestantism  of  Ger- 
many! how  striking  is  the  contrast  between  the  unpre- 
tending features  of  the  Reformed  and  the  gorgeous  splen- 
dor of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  The  benches  of  oak, 
on  which  were  seated  the  congregation,  made  no  distinc- 
tions of  class  and  rank;  the  little  village  authorities  were 
mingled  with  the  mere  peasants;  the  Pastor’s  family  sat 


THE  RAPACIOUS  OFFICER. 


4G3 


nearest  to  the  reading  desk, — that  was  the  only  place  dis- 
tinguished from  the  others.  The  building,  like  most  of  its 
era,  was  plain  and  unornamented;  some  passages  from 
Scripture  were  written  on  the  walls  in  different  places, 
but  these  were  its  only  decoration. 

As  I sat  awaiting  the  commencement  of  the  service  I 
could  not  avoid  being  struck  by  the  marked  difference  of 
feature  observable  in  Protestant  from  what  we  see  in 
Roman  Catholic  communities, — not  depending  upon  na- 
tionality, for  Germany  itself  is  an  illustration  in  point. 
The  gorgeous  ceremonial  of  the  Romish  Church,  its  ven- 
erable architecture,  its  prestige  of  antiquity,  its  pealing 
organ,  and  its  incense  all  contribute  to  a certain  exaltation 
of  mind  and  fervor  of  sentiment  that  may  readily  be  mis- 
taken for  true  religious  feeling.  These  things,  connected 
and  bound  up  with  the  most  awful  and  impressive  thoughts 
the  mind  of  man  is  capable  of,  cannot  fail  to  impress  upon 
the  features  of  the  worshippers  an  expression  of  profound, 
heartfelt  adoration,  which  poetizes  the  most  common-place, 
and  elevates  the  tone  of  even  the  most  vulgar  faces.  Retsch 
had  not  to  go  far  for  those  figures  of  intense  devotional 
character  his  works  abound  in;  every  chapel  contained 
innumerable  studies  for  his  pencil.  The  features  of  the 
Protestant  worshippers  were  calm,  even  to  sternness;  the 
eyes,  not  bent  upon  some  great  picture  or  some  holy  relic 
with  wondering  admiration,  were  downcast  in  meditation 
deep,  or  raised  to  heaven  with  thoughts  already  there. 
There  was  a holy  and  a solemn  awe  in  every  face,  as 
though  in  the  presence  of  Him  and  in  His  Temple  the  pas- 
sions and  warm  feelings  of  man  were  an  unclean  offering; 
that  to  understand  His  truths  and  to  apply  His  counsels  a 
pure  heart  and  a clear  understanding  were  necessary, — 
and  these  they  brought.  To  look  on  their  cold  and  stead- 
fast faces  you  would  say  that  Luther’s  own  spirit,  his 
very  temperament,  had  descended  to  his  followers.  There 
was  the  same  energy  of  character,  the  indomitable  courage, 
the  perseverance  no  obstacle  could  thwart,  the  determina- 
tion no  opposition  could  shake.  The  massive  head,  square 
and  strong;  the  broad,  bold  forehead;  the  full  eye;  the 
wide  nostril  and  the  thick  lip,  at  once  the  indication  of 


464 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


energy,  of  passion,  and  of  power, — are  seen  throughout 
Saxony  as  the  types  of  national  feature. 

The  service  of  the  Lutheran  Church  is  most  simple ; and, 
like  that  of  our  Presbyterians  at  home,  cousists  in  a hymn, 
a portion  of  Scripture  read  out,  and,  what  is  considered  the 
greatest  point  of  all,  a sermon,  — half  prayer,  half  disser- 
tation, — which  concludes  the  whole.  Even  when  the  Pas- 
tors are  eloquent  men,  which  they  rarely  are,  I doubt  much 
if  German  be  a language  well  suited  for  pulpit  oratory. 
There  is  an  eternal  involution  of  phrase,  a complexity  in 
the  expression  of  even  simple  matters,  which  would  forever 
prevent  those  bold  imaginative  flights  by  which  Bossuet 
and  Massillon  appealed  to  the  hearts  and  minds  of  their 
hearers.  Were  a German  to  attempt  this,  his  mysticism, 
the  “ maladie  du  pays,”  would  at  once  interfere,  and  render 
him  unintelligible.  The  pulpit  eloquence  of  Germany,  so 
far  as  I have  experience  of  it,  more  closely  resembles  the 
style  of  the  preachers  of  the  seventeenth  century,  when 
familiar  illustrations  were  employed  to  convey  such  truths 
as  rose  above  the  humble  level  of  ordinary  intellects  ; having 
much  of  the  grotesque  quaintness  our  own  Latimer  pos- 
sessed, without,  unhappily,  the  warm  glow  of  his  rich  im- 
agination or  the  brilliant  splendor  of  his  descriptive  talent. 
Still,  the  forcible  earnestness  and  the  strong  energy  of  con- 
viction are  to  be  found  in  the  German  pulpit,  and  these, 
also,  may  be  the  heirlooms  of  “ the  Doctor,”  as  the  Saxons 
love  to  call  the  great  reformer. 

Some  thoughts  like  this  suggested  a visit  to  the  Wart- 
burg,  the  scene  of  Luther’s  captivity ; for  such,  although 
devised  with  friendly  intent,  his  residence  there  was.  And 
so  abandoning  the  Brocken  for  the  nonce,  I started  for 
Eisenach. 

As  you  approach  the  town  of  Eisenach, — for  I ’m  not 
going  to  weary  you  with  the  whole  road, — you  come  upon 
a little  glen  in  the  forest,  the  Thuringer  Wald,  where  the 
road  is  completely  overshadowed,  and  even  at  noonday  is 
almost  like  night.  A little  well,  bubbling  in  a basin  of 
rock,  stands  at  the  road-side,  where  an  iron  ladle  chained 
to  the  stone,  and  a rude  bench,  proclaim  that  so  much  of 
thought  has  been  bestowed  on  the  wayfarer. 


THE  RAPACIOUS  OFFICER. 


465 


As  you  rest  from  tlie  heat  and  fatigue  of  the  day  upon 
chat  humble  seat,  you  may  not  know  that  Martin  Luther 
himself  sat  on  that  very  bench,  tired  and  way-worn, 
as  he  came  back  from  Worms,  where,  braving  the  power 
of  king  and  kaiser,  he  had  gone  manfully  to  defend  his 
opinions,  and  assert  the  doctrines  of  the  Reformation. 
It  was  there  he  lay  down  to  sleep, — a sleep  I would  dare 
to  say  not  the  less  tranquil  because  the  excommunication 
of  Rome  had  been  fulminated  over  his  head.  He  was 
alone ; he  had  refused  every  offer  of  companionship  which 
zeal  for  the  cause  and  personal  friendship  had  prompted, — 
when  suddenly  he  was  aroused  by  the  tramp  of  armed  men, 
and  the  heavy  clattering  of  horses  coming  up  the  glen,  lie 
knew  his  life  was  sought  for  by  his  enemies,  and  what  a 
grateful  deed  his  assassination  would  be  to  record  within 
the  halls  of  many  a kingly  palace.  In  an  instant  he  was 
on  his  legs,  and  grasping  his  trusty  broadsword  he  awaited 
the  attack.  Not  too  soon,  however,  for  scarcely  had  the 
horsemen  come  within  sight  than  putting  spurs  to  their 
steeds  they  bore  down  upon  him;  then  checking  their 
horses  suddenly,  the  leader  called  aloud  to  him  to  sur- 
render himself  his  prisoner.  Good  Martin’s  reply  was  a 
stroke  of  his  broadsword  that  brought  the  summoner  from 
his  saddle  to  the  ground.  Farley  was  at  an  end  now,  and 
they  rushed  on  him  at  once.  Still,  it  was  clear  that  their 
wish  was  not  to  kill  him,  which  from  their  numbers  and 
superior  equipment  could  not  have  been  difficult.  But 
Luther’s  love  of  liberty  was  as  great  as  his  love  of  life, 
and  he  laid  about  him  like  one  who  would  sell  either  as 
dearly  as  he  could.  At  length,  pressed  by  his  enemies  on 
every  side,  his  sword  broke  near  the  hilt;  he  then  threw 
the  useless  fragment  from  his  hand,  and  called  out,  “Ich 
kann  niclit  mehr  (I  can  do  no  more) ! ” 

He  was  now  bound  with  cords,  and  his  eyes  bandaged; 
then  he  was  conveyed  to  the  castle  of  the  Wartburg  about 
two  miles  distant;  nor  did  he  know  for  several  days  after 
that  the  whole  was  a device  of  his  friend  and  protector  the 
Elector  of  Saxony,  who  wished  to  give  currency  to  the 
story  that  Luther’s  capture  was  a real  one,  and  the  Wart- 
burg  his  prison,  — and  not,  as  it  really  proved,  his  asylum. 

30 


466 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Here  he  spent  nearly  a year,  occupied  in  the  translation  of 
the  Bible,  and  occasionally  preaching  in  the  small  chapel 
of  the  Schloss.  His  strange  fancies  of  combats  with  the 
Evil  One  are  among  the  traditions  of  the  place,  and  the 
torn  plaster  of  the  wall  is  pointed  out  as  the  spot  where  he 
hurled  his  inkstand  at  the  tiend  who  tormented  him,  in  the 
shape  of  a large  blue-bottle  fly ! 

One  cannot  see,  unmoved,  that  rude  chamber,  with  its 
simple  furniture  of  massive  oak,  where  the  great  monk 
meditated  those  tremendous  truths  that  were  to  shake 
thrones  and  dynasties,  and  awake  the  world  from  the 
charmed  sleep  of  superstition,  in  which  for  centuries  it 
lay  buried.  The  force  of  his  strong  nature,  his  enthu- 
siasm, and  a kind  of  savage  energy  he  possessed  frequently 
over-balanced  his  reason,  and  he  gave  way  to  wild  rantings 
and  ravings,  which  often  followed  on  the  longest  efforts  of 
his  mental  labor,  and  seemed  like  the  outpourings  of  an 
overcharged  intellect.  The  zeal  with  which  he  prosecuted 
his  great  task  was  something  almost  miraculous;  often  for 
thirty  or  even  forty  hours  did  he  remain  at  the  desk  with- 
out food  or  rest,  and  then  such  was  his  exhaustion,  bodily 
as  well  as  mental,  that  he  would  fall  senseless  on  the  floor, 
and  it  required  all  the  exertions  of  those  about  him  to 
rally  him  from  these  attacks.  His  first  sensations  on  re- 
covering were  ever  those  of  a deadly  struggle  with  the 
Evil  One,  by  whose  agency  alone  he  believed  his  great 
work  was  interrupted;  and  then  the  scene  which  succeeded 
would  display  all  the  fearful  workings  of  his  diseased  im- 
agination. From  these  paroxysms  nothing  seemed  to 
awake  him  so  readily  as  the  presence  of  his  friend  Melanc- 
thon,  whose  mild  nature  and  angelic  temperament  were 
the  exact  opposites  of  his  bold,  impetuous  character.  The 
sound  of  Melancthon’s  voice  alone  would  frequently  calm 
him  in  the  wildest  moments;  and  when  the  torrent  of  his 
thought  ran  onward  with  mad  speed,  and  shapes  and 
images  flitted  before  his  disordered  brain,  and  earthly 
combats  were  mingled  in  his  mind  with  more  dreadful 
conflicts,  and  he  burst  forth  into  the  violent  excesses  of 
his  passion, — then  the  soft  breathings  of  Melancthon’s 
flute  would  still  the  storm,  and  lay  the  troubled  waters  of 


THE  RAPACIOUS  OFFICER. 


467 


his  soul;  that  rugged  nature  would  yield  even  to  tears, 
and  like  a child  he  would  weep  till  slumber  closed  his 
eyes. 

I lingered  the  entire  day  in  the  Warfcburg, — sometimes 
in  the  Rittersaal,  where  suits  of  ancient  and  most  curious 
armor  are  preserved;  sometimes  in  the  chapel,  where  the 
nule  desk  is  shown  at  which  Luther  lectured  to  the  house- 
hold of  the  Schloss.  Here,  too,  is  a portrait  of  him  which 
is  alleged  to  be  authentic.  The  features  are  such  as  we 
see  in  all  his  pictures;  the  only  difference  I could  perceive 
was,  that  he  is  represented  with  a mustache,  which  gives 
what  a Frenchman  near  me  called  an  “air  brigand ” to  the 
stern  massiveness  of  his  features.  This  circumstance, 
slight  as  it  is,  rather  corroborates  the  authenticity  of  the 
painting,  for  it  is  well  known  that  during  his  residence  at 
the  Wartburg  he  wore  his  beard  in  this  fashion,  and  to 
many  retainers  of  the  castle  passed  for  a Ritter,  or  a 
knight,  confined  for  some  crime  against  the  State. 

With  a farewell  look  at  the  old  chamber,  where  stands 
Luther’s  oaken  chair  and  table,  I left  the  Schloss,  and  as 
night  was  falling  descended  towards  Eisenach, — for  a de- 
scription of  whose  watermills  and  windmills,  whose  cloth 
factories  and  toy  shops,  I refer  you  to  various  and  several 
guide-books;  only  begging  to  say,  on  my  own  account,  that 
the  Reuten  Krantz  is  a seemly  inn,  and  the  host  a pleasant 
German  of  the  old  school, — that  is,  in  other  words,  one 
whose  present  life  is  always  about  twenty  years  in  advance 
of  his  thoughts,  and  who,  while  he  eats  and  drinks  in  the 
present  century,  thinks  and  feels  with  that  which  is  gone. 
The  latest  event  of  which  he  had  any  cognizance  was  the 
retreat  from  Leipsie,  when  the  French  poured  through  the 
village  for  five  days  without  ceasing.  All  the  great  feat- 
ures of  that  memorable  retreat,  however,  were  absorbed  in 
his  mind  by  an  incident  which  occurred  to  himself,  and  at 
which,  by  the  gravity  of  his  manner  in  relating  it,  I could 
not  help  laughing  heartily. 

When  the  commissariat  arrived  at  Eisenach  to  make  ar- 
rangement for  the  troops  on  their  march,  they  allowed  the 
inhabitants  the  option  (a  pleasant  one)  of  converting  the 
billets  imposed  upon  them  for  a certain  sum  of  money,  in 


468 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


virtue  of  which  they  obtained  an  exemption  from  all  in- 
trusion on  the  part  of  men  and  officers,  save  those  of  the 
rank  of  colonel  and  upwards;  and  in  evidence  a great 
placard  was  affixed  to  their  door,  setting  forth  the  same 
as  a “general  order.”  Now,  as  it  was  agreed  that  only 
one  officer  should  be  accommodated  at  a time,  the  privi- 
lege was  worth  paying  for,  — particularly  by  our  host  of 
the  Rue  Garland,  whose  larder  was  always  stored  with 
delicacies,  and  whose  cellar  was  famed  for  thirty  miles 
round.  He  accordingly  counted  down  his  re ichs -thalers, 
gulden,  and  groschen, — with  a heavy  heart  it  is  true,  but 
to  avert  a heavier  evil, — and  with  his  grand  patent  of  im- 
munity hung  out  upon  his  sign-post,  he  gave  himself  no 
further  trouble  about  the  war  or  its  chances.  On  the 
third  evening  of  the  retreat,  however,  a regiment  of  the 
Chasseurs  de  la  Garde,  conspicuous  by  their  green  coats 
and  white  facings,  the  invariable  costume  of  the  Emperor 
himself,  entered  the  town,  and  bivouacked  in  the  little 
square.  The  colonel,  a handsome  fellow  of  about  five-and- 
thirty  or  forty,  looked  about  him  sharply  for  a moment  or 
two,  irresolute  where  he  should  fix  his  resting-place;  when 
a savory  odor  of  sausages  frying  in  the  Reuten  Krantz 
quickly  decided  his  choice.  He  entered  at  once,  and  mak- 
ing his  bow  to  mine  host  with  that  admirable  mixture  of 
deference  and  command  a Frenchman  can  always  assume, 
ordered  his  dinner  to  be  got  ready  and  a bed  prepared  for 
him. 

It  was  well  worth  the  host’s  while  to  stand  on  good 
terms  with  the  officers  of  rank,  who  could  repress  or  wink 
at  the  liberties  of  the  men  as  occasion  served,  and  so  the 
Rue  Garland  did  its  utmost  that  day  to  surpass  itself. 

“ Je  dois  vous  prevenir,”  said  the  colonel,  laughing,  as 
he  strolled  from  the  door  after  giving  his  directions, — “ Je 
dois  vous  prevenir,  que  je  mange  bien,  et  beaucoup.” 

“Monsieur  shall  be  content,”  said  the  host,  with  a tap 
on  his  own  stomach,  as  though  to  say,  “The  nourishment 
that  has  sufficed  for  this  may  well  content  such  a carcass 
as  thine.” 

“And  as  for  wine  — ” continued  the  colonel. 

“ Zum  kissen ! ” cried  the  host,  with  a smack  of  his 


TIIE  RAPACIOUS  OFFICER. 


469 


lips  that  could  be  heard  over  the  whole  Platz,  and  which 
made  a poor  captain’s  mouth  water,  who  guessed  the 
allusion. 

I shall  not  detail  for  my  reader,  though  I most  certainly 
heard  myself,  the  long  bill  of  fare  by  which  the  liue 
Branch  intended  to  astonish  the  weak  nerves  of  the 
Frenchman,  little  suspecting  at  the  time  how  mutual  the 
surprise  was  destined  to  be.  I remember  there  was  fleisch 
and  braten  without  end,  and  baked  pike  and  sausages  and 
boar’s-head  and  eels  and  potted  mackerel  and  brawn  and 
partridges,  — not  to  speak  of  all  the  roots  that  ever  gave 
indigestion  since  the  flood,  besides  sweet-meats  and  pud- 
dings, for  whose  genera  and  species  it  would  take  Buffon 
and  Cuvier  to  invent  a classification.  As  I heard  the 
formidable  enumeration,  I could  not  help  expressing  my 
surprise  at  the  extent  of  preparations  so  manifestly  dis- 
proportionate to  the  amount  of  the  company ; but  the  host 
soon  satisfied  me  on  this  head,  by  saying  “that  they  were 
obliged  to  have  an  immense  supply  of  cold  viands  always 
ready  to  sell  to  the  other  officers  throughout  the  town, 
whom,”  he  added,  in  a sly  whisper,  “they  soon  contrived 
to  make  pay  for  the  heavy  ransom  imposed  on  themselves.” 
The  display,  therefore,  which  did  such  credit  to  his  hos- 
pitality, was  made  with  little  prospect  of  injuring  his 
pocket,  — a pleasant  secret,  if  it  only  were  practicable. 

The  hour  of  dinner  arrived  at  last,  and  the  colonel, 
punctual  to  the  moment,  entered  the  salon , which  looked 
out  by  a window  on  the  Platz, — a strange  contrast,  to  be 
sure,  for  his  eyes;  the  great  sideboard  loaded  with  luscious 
fare,  and  covered  by  an  atmosphere  of  savory  smoke,  and 
the  meagre  bivouac  without,  where  groups  of  officers  sat, 
eating  their  simple  rations,  and  passing  their  goblets  of 
washy  beer  from  hand  to  hand.  Rochefoucauld  says  “ there 
is  always  something  pleasant  in  the  misfortunes  of  our  best 
friends;  ” and  as  I suppose  he  knew  his  countrymen,  I con- 
clude that  the  colonel  arranged  his  napkin  on  his  knee  with 
a high  sense  of  enjoyment  for  the  little  panorama  which 
met  his  eyes  on  the  Platz. 

It  must  certainly  have  been  a goodly  sight,  and  some- 
what of  a surprise  besides,  for  an  old  campaigner  to  see 


470 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


the  table  groaning  under  its  display  of  good  things;  amid 
which,  like  Lombardy  poplars  in  a Flemish  landscape,  the 
tall  and  taper  necks  of  various  ilasks  shot  up, — some 
frosted  with  an  icy  crest,  some  cobwebbed  with  the  touch 
of  time.  Ladling  the  potage  from  a great  silver  tureen  of 
antique  mould,  the  host  stood  beside  the  colonel’s  chair, 
enjoying  as  only  a host  can  enjoy  the  mingled  delight  and 
admiration  of  his  guest;  and  now  the  work  began  in  right 
earnest.  What  an  admirable  soup,  and  what  a glass  of 
Nieder  thaler!  — no  hock  was  ever  like  it;  and  those 
pates , — they  were  en  becltamelle.  “He  was  sorry  they 
were  not  oysters,  but  the  chablis  he  could  vouch  for.” 
And  well  he  might;  such  a glass  of  wine  might  console 
the  Emperor  for  Leipsic. 

“How  did  you  say  the  trout  was  fried,  my  friend?  ” 

“In  mushroom  gravy,  dashed  with  anchovy.” 

“Another  slice,  if  you’ll  permit  me.  [Pop!]  That 
flask  has  burst  its  bonds  in  time;  I was  wishing  to  taste 
your  (Eil  de  Perdrix.” 

The  outposts  were  driven  in  by  this  time,  and  the  heavy 
guns  of  the  engagement  were  brought  down;  in  other 
words,  the  braten,  a goodly  dish  of  veal,  garnished  with 
every  incongruity  the  mind  of  man  could  muster,  en- 
tered,— which,  while  the  host  carved  at  the  sideboard,  the 
colonel  devoured  in  his  imagination,  comforting  himself 
the  while  by  a salmi  of  partridges  with  truffles.  Some  in- 
valuable condiment  had,  however,  been  forgotten  with  the 
veal,  and  the  host  bustled  out  of  the  room  in  search  of  it. 

The  door  had  not  well  closed  when  the  colonel  poured 
out  a goblet  of  champagne,  and  drank  it  at  a draught; 
then  springing  from  the  window  into  the  Platz,  where 
already  the  shadow  of  evening  was  falling,  he  was  imme- 
diately replaced  by  the  major,  whose  dress  and  general 
appearance  were  sufficiently  like  his  own  to  deceive  any 
stranger.  Helping  himself  without  loss  of  time  to  the 
salmi,  the  major  ate  away  like  one  whose  appetite  had 
suffered  a sore  trial  from  suspense.  The  salmi  gave  place 
to  the  veal,  and  the  veal  to  the  baked  pike;  for  so  it  is, 
the  stomach  in  Germany  is  a kind  of  human  ark,  wherein, 
though  there  is  little  order  in  the  procession,  the  animals 


THE  RAPACIOUS  OFFICER. 


471 


enter  whole  and  entire.  The  host  watched  his  guest’s  per- 
formance, and  was  in  ecstasies;  good  things  never  did  meet 
with  more  perfect  appreciation;  and  as  for  the  wine,  he 
drank  it  like  a Swabian,  whole  goblets  full  at  a draught. 
At  length,  holding  up  an  empty  flask,  he  cried  out, 
“champagne!  ” and  away  trotted  the  fat  man  to  his  cellar, 
rather  surprised,  it  is  true,  how  rapidly  three  flasks  of  his 
Ai  Mousseux  had  disappeared. 

This  was  now  the  critical  moment,  and  with  a half-sigh 
of  regret  the  major  leaped  into  the  street,  and  the  first 
captain  relieved  the  guard.  Poor  fellow ! he  was  fearfully 
hungr}T,  and  helped  himself  to  the  first  dish  before  him, 
and  drank  from  the  bottle  at  his  side,  like  one  whose 
stomach  had  long  ceased  to  be  pampered  by  delicacies. 

“ Du  Heiliger ! ” cried  the  host  to  himself,  as  he  stood 
behind  his  chair,  and  surveyed  the  performance, — “du 
Heiliger,  how  he  does  eat!  One  wouldn’t  suppose  he  had 
been  at  it  these  fifty  minutes.  Art  ready  for  the  capon 
now?”  continued  he,  as  he  removed  the  keel  and  floor- 
timbers  of  a saddle  of  mutton. 

“The  capon,”  sighed  the  other;  “yes,  the  capon  now.” 

Alas!  he  knew  that  delicious  dish  was  reserved  for  his 
successor.  And  so  it  was;  before  the  host  re-entered,  the 
second  captain  had  filled  his  glass  twice,  and  was  anxiously 
sitting  in  expectation  of  the  capon.  Such  a bird  as  it 
was ! — a very  sarcophagus  of  truffles,  a mine  of  delicious 
dainties  of  every  clime  and  cuisine  ! 

“Good,  eh?” 

“Delicious!”  said  the  second  captain,  filling  a bumper 
and  handing  it  to  the  host,  while  he  clinked  his  own 
against  it  in  friendly  guise. 

“A  pleasant  fellow,  truly,”  said  the  host,  “and  a social; 
but,  Lord,  how  he  eats ! There  go  the  wings  and  the  back ! 
Himmel  und  Erde!  if  he  is  n’t  at  the  pasty  now ! ” 

“Wine!”  cried  the  Frenchman,  striking  the  table  with 
the  empty  bottle,  “wine!  ” 

The  host  crossed  himself,  and  went  out  in  search  of 
more  liquor,  muttering,  as  he  shufHed  along,  “ What  would 
have  become  of  me  if  I hadn’t  paid  the  indemnity!  ” 

The  third  captain  was  at  his  post  before  the  host  got 


472 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


back,  and  whatever  the  performance  of  his  predecessors,  it 
was  nothing  to  his.  The  pasty  disappeared  like  magic; 
the  fricandeau  seemed  to  have  melted  away  like  snow 
before  the  sun;  while  he  drank  indiscriminately  hock, 
hermitage,  and  bordeaux  as  though  he  were  a camel 
victualling  himself  for  a three  weeks’  tramp  in  the 
desert. 

The  poor  host  now  walked  round  the  board,  and  sur- 
veyed the  debris  of  the  feast  with  a sad  heart.  Of  all  the 
joints  which  he  hoped  to  have  seen  cold  on  the  shelves  of 
his  larder,  some  ruined  fragments  alone  remained.  Here 
was  the  gable  end  of  a turkey,  there  the  side-wall  of  a 
sirloin;  on  one  side  the  broken  roof  of  a pasty,  on  the 
other  the  bare  joists  of  a rib  of  beef.  It  was  the  Palmyra 
of  things  eatable,  and  a sad  and  melancholy  sight  to 
gaze  on. 

“What  comes  next,  good  host?”  cried  the  third  captain, 
as  he  wiped  his  lips  with  his  napkin. 

“Next!”  cried  the  host,  in  horror,  “Hagel  und  regen! 
thou  canst  not  eat  more,  surely?” 

“I  don’t  know  that,”  replied  the  other;  “the  air  of  these 
mountains  freshens  the  appetite.  I might  pick  a little  of 
something  sweet.” 

With  a groan  of  misery  the  poor  host  placed  a plum  pie 
before  the  all-devouring  stranger;  and  then,  as  if  to  see 
that  no  legerdemain  was  practised,  stationed  himself 
directly  in  front,  and  watched  every  morsel  as  he  put  it 
into  his  mouth.  No,  the  thing  was  all  fair;  he  ate  like 
any  one  else,  grinding  his  food  and  smacking  his  lips  like 
an  ordinary  mortal.  The  host  looked  down  on  the  floor, 
and  beneath  the  cloth  of  the  table:  what  was  that  for? 
Hid  he  suspect  the  stranger  had  a tail? 

“A  glass  of  mulled  claret  with  cloves  ! ” said  the  French- 
man, “and  then  you  may  bring  the  dessert.” 

“ the  Heavens  be  praised!  ” cried  the  host,  as  he  swept 
the  last  fragments  of  the  table  into  a wide  tray,  and  left 
the  room. 

“ Egad ! I thought  you  had  forgotten  me  altogether, 
captain,’  said  a stout  fat  fellow,  as  he  squeezed  himself 
with  difficulty  through  the  window,  and  took  his  seat  at  the 


(Usf’ « 


sss5**k ,;  a ,v,J 


THE  RAPACIOUS  OFFICER. 


473 


table.  This  was  the  quartermaster  of  the  regiment,  and 
celebrated  for  his  appetite  throughout  the  whole  brigade. 

“ Ach  Gott,  how  he  is  swelled  out!  ” was  the  first  excla- 
mation of  the  host  as  he  re-entered  the  room;  “and  no 
wonder  either,  when  one  thinks  of  what  he  has  eaten.” 
“How  now,  what’s  this?”  shouted  the  quartermaster, 
as  he  saw  the  dessert  arranging  on  the  table;  “Sacre 
tonnerre!  what’s  all  this?” 

“The  dessert, — if  you  can  eat  it,”  said  the  host,  with 
a deep  sigh. 

“Eat  it!  no;  how  the  devil  should  I?” 

“I  thought  not,”  responded  the  other,  submissively,  “I 
thought  not;  even  a shark  will  get  gorged  at  last!  ” 

“Eh,  what’s  that  you  say?”  replied  the  quartermaster, 
roughly;  “you  don’t  expect  a man  to  dine  on  figs  and  wal- 
nuts, or  dried  prunes  and  olives,  do  you?” 

“Dine!  ” shouted  the  host,  “and  have  you  not  dined?” 
“No,  mille  bombes,  that  I have  n’t,  as  you  shall  soon  see!  ” 
“ Alle  Gute  Geisten  loben  den  Hernn ! ” said  the  host, 
blessing  himself;  “an  thou  be’st  the  Satanus,  I charge 
thee  keep  away ! ” 

A shout  of  laughter  from  without  prevented  the  quarter- 
master’s reply  to  this  exorcism  being  heard;  while  the 
trumpet  sounded  suddenly  for  “boot  and  saddle.” 

With  a bottle  of  wine  stuffed  in  each  pocket,  the  quar- 
termaster rose  from  table  and  hurried  away  to  join  his 
companions,  who  had  received  sudden  orders  to  push  for- 
ward towards  Cassel;  and  as  the  bewildered  host  stood  at 
his  window  while  the  regiment  filed  past,  each  officer 
saluted  him  politely  as  they  cried  out  in  turn,  “Adieu, 
Monsieur!  my  compliments  to  tliebraten!”  “The  turkey 
was  delicious!”  “The  salmi  perfect!”  “The  capon 
glorious!”  “The  venison  a chef-d’oeuvre /”  — down  to 
the  fat  quartermaster,  who  as  he  raised  a flask  to  his 
lips,  and  shook  his  head  reproachfully,  said,  “Ah,  you 
old  screw,  nothing  better  than  nuts  and  raisins  to  give  a 
hungry  man  for  his  dinner!”  And  so  they  disappeared 
from  the  1’latz,  leaving  mine  host  in  a maze  of  doubt  and 
bewilderment,  which  it  took  many  a day  and  night’s  medi- 
tation to  solve  to  his  own  conviction. 


474 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


Though  I cannot  promise  myself  that  my  reader  will 
enjoy  this  story  as  much  as  I did,  I could  almost  vouch  for 
his  doing  so  if  he  had  heard  it  from  the  host  of  the  Reuten 
Krantz  himself,  told  with  the  staid  gravity  of  German 
manner,  and  all  the  impressive  seriousness  of  one  who  saw 
in  the  whole  adventure  nothing  ludicrous  whatever,  but 
only  a most  unfair  trick,  that  deserved  the  stocks  or  the 
pillory. 

Mine  host  was  indeed  a character  in  his  way ; his  whole 
life  had  only  room  for  three  or  four  incidents,  about  and 
around  which  his  thoughts  revolved  as  on  an  axis,  and 
whose  impression  was  too  vivid  to  admit  of  any  occurrence 
usurping  their  place.  When  a boy,  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  acting  as  guide  to  the  Wartburg  to  his  father’s 
guests ; for  they  were  a generation  of  innkeepers  time  out 
of  mind,  and  even  yet  he  spoke  of  those  days  with 
transport. 

It  was  amusing,  too,  to  hear  him  talk  of  Luther  as 
familiarly  as  though  he  had  known  him  personally,  men- 
tioning little  anecdotes  of  his  career,  and  repeating  his 
opinions  as  if  they  were  things  of  yesterday.  But  indeed 
his  mind  had  no  more  perspective  than  a Chinese  tea-tray, 
— everything  stood  beside  its  neighbor,  without  shadow  or 
relief  of  any  kind;  and  to  hear  him  talk,  you  would  say 
that  Melancthon  and  Marshal  Macdonald  might  have  been 
personal  friends,  and  Martin  Luther  and  Ney  passed  an 
evening  in  the  blue  salon  of  the  Reuten  Krantz.  As  for 
Eisenach,  and  all  about  it,  he  knew  as  little  as  though  it 
were  a city  of  Egypt.  He  hoped  there  was  a public  library 
now;  he  knew  there  was  in  his  father’s  time,  but  the 
Erench  used  to  make  cartridges  with  the  books  in  many 
towns  they  passed  through,  — perhaps  they  had  done  the 
same  here.  These  confounded  French,  they  seemed  some 
way  to  fill  every  avenue  of  his  brain;  there  was  no  inlet  of 
his  senses  without  a Erench  sentinel  on  guard  over  it. 

How, — for  my  sins,  I suppose, — it  so  chanced  that  I 
was  laid  up  here  for  several  weeks  with  a return  of  an  old 
rheumatism  I had  contracted  in  one  of  my  wanderings. 
Books  they  brought  me;  but,  alas!  the  only  volumes  a 
German  circulating  library  ever  contains  are  translations 


THE  RAPACIOUS  OFFICER. 


475 


of  the  very  worst  French  and  English  works.  The  weather 
was  for  the  most  part  rainy  and  broken;  and  even  when 
my  strength  permitted  me  to  venture  into  the  garden,  I 
generally  got  soundly  drenched  before  I reached  the  house 
again.  What  insupportable  ennui  is  that  which  inhabits 
the  inn  of  a little  remote  town,  where  come  few  travellers 
and  no  news ! What  a fearful  blank  in  existence  is  such  a 
place!  Just  think  of  sitting  in  the  little  silent  and  sandy 
parlor,  with  its  six  hard  chairs,  and  one  straight  old  sofa, 
upholstered  with  flock  and  fleas,  counting  over  the  four 
prints  in  black-wood  frames  upon  the  walls ! — Scripture 
subjects,  where  Judith,  with  a quilted  petticoat  and  sabots 
cuts  the  head  off  a Holofernes  in  buckskins  and  top-boots, 
and  catches  the  blood  in  a soup-tureen;  and  Abraham, 
with  a horse-pistol,  threatening  a little  Isaac  in  jacket  and 
trousers,  with  a most  villanous  expression  about  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes;  and  the  old  looking-glass,  cracked  in  the 
middle,  and  representing  your  face  in  two  hemispheres, 
with  a nose  and  one  eye  to  each,  the  whole  tinged  with  a 
verd  antique  coloring  which  makes  you  look  like  a man  in 
bronze.  Outside  the  door,  but  near  enough  for  every  pur- 
pose of  annoyance,  stands  a great  hulking  old  clock,  that 
ticks  away  incessantly,  — true  type  of  time  that  passes  on 
its  road  whether  you  be  sick  or  sorry,  merry  or  mournful. 
With  what  a burr  the  old  fellow  announces  that  he  is 
going  to  strike!  it  is  like  the  asthmatic  wheezing  of  some 
invalid  making  an  exertion  beyond  his  strength.  And 
then  the  heavy  plod  of  sabots  back  and  forth  through  the 
little  hall  into  the  kitchen,  and  out  again  to  the  stable- 
yard  ; with  the  shrill  yell  of  some  drabbled  wench  scream- 
ing for  “Johann,”  or  “Jacob;  ” and  all  the  little  platitudes 
of  the  menage  that  reach  you,  seasoned  from  time  to  time 
by  the  coarse  laughter  of  the  boors,  or  the  squabbling 
sounds  that  issue  streetwards,  where  some  vendor  of 
“schnaps”  or  “kirch-wasser  ” holds  his  tap. 

What  a dreary  sensation  comes  over  one,  to  think  of 
the  people  who  pass  their  lives  in  such  a place,  with  its 
poor  little  miserable  interests  and  occupations!  and  how 
one  shudders  at  the  bare  idea  of  sinking  down  to  the  level 
of  such  a stagnant  pool,  knowing  the  small  notorieties,  and 


476 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


talking  like  them;  and  yet,  with  all  this  holy  horror,  how 
rapidly  and  insensibly  is  such  a change  induced!  Every 
day  rubs  off  some  former  prejudice  and  induces  some  new 
habit,  and  as  the  eye  of  the  prisoner  in  his  darksome  dun- 
geon learns  to  distinguish  each  object  clear,  as  if  in  noon- 
day, so  will  the  mind  accommodate  itself  to  the  moral 
gloom  of  such  a cell  as  this,  — ay,  and  take  a vivid  interest 
in  each  slight  event  that  goes  on  there,  as  though  he  were 
to  the  “ manner  born.” 

In  a fortnight,  or  even  less,  I lay  awake,  conjecturing 
why  the  urchin  who  brought  the  mail  from  Gotha  had  not 
arrived;  before  three  weeks  I participated  in  the  shock  of 
the  town  at  the  conduct  of  the  Prow  von  Biitterwick,  who 
raised  the  price  of  schenkin  or  schwein-fleisch,  I forget 
which,  by  some  decimal  of  a farthing;  and  fully  entered 
into  the  distressed  feelings  of  the  inhabitants,  who  fore- 
told a European  war  from  the  fact  that  a Prussian  corporal, 
with  a pack  on  his  shoulders,  was  seen  passing  through  the 
town  that  morning  before  daybreak.  When  I came  to 
think  over  these  things,  I got  into  a grievous  state  of 
alarm.  “Another  week,  Arthur,”  said  I,  “and  thou  art 
done  for;  Eisenach  may  claim  thee  as  its  own;  and  the 
Grand-Duke  of  — Heaven  forgive  me!  but  I forget  the 
potentate  of  the  realm  — he  may  summon  thee  to  his 
counsels  as  the  Hoch  Wohlgeborner  und  Gelehrter,  Herr 
von  O’Leary;  and  thou  mayest  be  found  here  some  half 
century  hence,  with  a pipe  in  thy  mouth  and  thy  hands 
in  thy  side  pockets,  discoursing  fat  consonants  like  any 
Saxon  of  them  all.  Run  for  it,  man,  run  for  it!  away, 
with  half  a leg,  if  need  be,  out  of  the  kingdom  with  all 
haste ! and  if  it  be  not  larger  than  its  neighbors,  a hop, 
step,  and  jump  ought  to  suffice  for  it.” 

Will  any  one  tell  me  — I ’ll  wager  they  cannot  — why  it 
is  that  if  you  pass  a week  or  a month  in  any  out-of-the-way 
place,  and  either  from  sulk  or  sickness  lead  a solitary  kind 
of  humdrum  life,  when  you  are  about  to  take  your  leave 
you  find  half  the  family  in  tears?  Every  man,  woman, 
and  child  thinks  it  incumbent  on  him  and  her  to  sport  a 
mourning  face.  The  host  wipes  his  eye  with  the  corner  of 
the  bill;  the  waiter  blows  his  nose  in  the  napkin;  the 


THE  RAPACIOUS  OFFICER. 


477 


chambermaid  holds  up  her  apron;  and  Boots,  with  aside 
wipe  of  his  blacking  hand,  leaves  his  countenance  in  a very 
fit  state  for  the  application  of  the  polishing  brush.  As  for 
yourself,  the  position  is  awkward  beyond  endurance.  That 
instant  you  feel  sick  of  the  whole  household,  from  the 
cellar  to  the  garret.  You  had  perilled  your  soul  in  damn- 
ing them  all  in  turn;  and  now  it  comes  out  that  you  are 
the  enfant  cheri  of  the  establishment.  What  a base,  black- 
hearted fellow  you  must  be  all  the  time!  In  short,  you 
feel  it;  otherwise,  why  is  your  finger  exploring  so  low  in 
the  recesses  of  your  purse.  Confound  it!  you  have  been 
very  harsh  and  hasty  with  the  good  people,  and  they  did 
their  best  after  all. 

Take  up  your  abode  at  Mivart’s  or  the  Clarendon ; occupy 
for  the  six  months  of  winter  the  suite  of  apartments  at 
Crillon’s  or  Meurice’s;  engage  the  whole  of  the  schwann 
at  Vienna;  ay,  or  even  the  Grand  Monarque  at  Aix,  — and 
I ’ll  wager  my  head  you  go  forth  at  the  end  of  it  without 
causing  a sigh  in  the  whole  household.  Don’t  flatter  your- 
self that  Mivart  will  stand  blubbering  over  the  bill,  or 
Meurice  be  half  choked  with  his  sobs.  The  Schwann 
doesn’t  care  a feather  of  his  wing;  and  as  for  the  Grand 
Monarque,  you  might  as  well  expect  his  prototype  would 
rise  from  the  grave  to  embrace  you.  A civil  grin,  that 
half  implies,  “You’ve  been  well  plucked  here,”  is  the 
extent  of  parting  emotion,  and  a tear  could  n’t  be  had  for 
the  price  of  Tokay. 

Well,  I bid  adieu  to  the  Reuten  Krantz  in  a different 
sort  of  mood  from  what  I expected.  I shook  the  old  Rue 
Branch  himself  heartily  by  the  hand;  and  having  distrib- 
uted a circle  of  gratuities,  — for  the  sum  total  of  which  I 
should  have  probably  been  maltreated  by  a London  wai- 
ter, — I took  my  staff  and  sallied  forth  towards  Weimar, 
accompanied  by  a shower  of  prayers  and  kind  wishes, 
that,  whether  sincere  or  not,  made  me  feel  happier  the 
whole  day  after. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


THE  FORTRESS. 

I narrowly  escaped  being  sent  to  tlie  guard-house  for 
the  night,  as  I approached  Erfurt;  for  seeing  that  it  was 
near  nine  o’clock,  when  the  gates  of  the  fortress  are  closed, 
I quickened  my  pace  to  a trot,  not  aware  of  the  reglement 
which  forbids  any  one  to  pass  rapidly  over  the  drawbridges 
of  a fortification.  Now,  though  the  rule  be  an  admirable 
one  when  applied  to  those  heavy  diligences,  which  with 
three  tons  of  passengers  and  six  of  luggage  come  lumber- 
ing along  the  road,  and  might  well  be  supposed  to  shake 
the  foundations  of  any  breastwork  or  barbican,  yet  that 
any  man  of  mortal  mould,  any  mere  creature  of  the  biped 
class  — even  with  two  shirts  and  a night-cap  in  his  pack  — 
could  do  this,  is  more  than  I can  conceive.  And  so  it  was 
I ran;  and  if  I did  a soldier  ran  after  me,  three  more  fol- 
lowed him,  and  a corporal  brought  up  the  rear;  and,  in 
fact,  so  imposing  was  the  whole  scene  that  any  unpreju- 
diced spectator,  not  over  versed  in  military  tactics,  might 
have  imagined  that  I was  about  to  storm  Erfurt,  and  had 
stolen  a march  upon  the  garrison.  After  all,  the  whole 
thing  was  pretty  much  like  what  Murat  did  at  Vienna,  and 
perhaps  it  was  that  which  alarmed  them. 

I saw  I had  committed  a fault,  but  what  it  was  I 
couldn’t  even  guess;  and  as  they  all  spoke  together,  and 
such  precious  bad  German  too  (did  you  ever  know  a for- 
eigner not  complain  of  the  abominable  faults  people  com- 
mit in  speaking  their  own  language?),  that  though  I cried 
peccavi,  I remembered  myself,  and  did  not  volunteer  any 
confession  of  iniquity  before  I heard  the  special  indict- 
ment,— and  it  seemed  I had  very  little  chance  of  doing 
that,  such  was  the  confusion  and  uproar. 

Now,  there  are  two  benevolent  institutions  in  all  law; 
and  according  to  these  a man  may  plead  either  “ in  forma 
pauperis”  or  “in  forma  stultus.”  I took  the  latter  plea, 


THE  FORTRESS. 


479 


and  came  off  triumphant;  my  sentence  was  recorded  as  a 
“Dummer  Englander,”  and  I went  my  way  rejoicing. 

Well,  “I  wish  them  luck  of  it,”  as  we  say  in  Ireland, 
who  have  a fancy  for  taking  fortified  towns.  Here  was  I 
inside  of  one,  the  gates  closed,  locked,  and  barred  behind 
me,  a wall  of  thirty  feet  high,  and  a ditch  of  fifty  feet 
deep,  to  keep  me  in,  — and  hang  me  if  I could  penetrate 
into  the  interior.  I suppose  I was  in  what  is  called  a 
parallel,  and  I walked  along,  turning  into  a hundred  little 
crooked  corners  and  zigzag  contrivances,  where  an  embra- 
sure and  a cannon  in  it  were  sure  to  be  found ; but  as  noth- 
ing are  so  like  one  another  as  stone  walls,  and  as  I never, 
for  the  life  of  me,  could  know  one  seventy-four  pounder 
from  another,  I wandered  about,  very  sadly  puzzled  to 
ascertain  if  I had  not  been  perambulating  the  same  little 
space  of  ground  for  an  hour  and  a half.  Egad ! thought  I, 
if  there  were  no  better  engineers  in  the  world  than  I,  they 
might  leave  the  gates  wide  open,  and  let  the  guard  go  to 
bed.  Hollo  ! here  ’s  some  one  coming  along,  — that ’s  for- 
tunate, at  last;  and  just  then  a man  wrapped  in  a loose 
cloak,  German  fashion,  passed  close  beside  me. 

“May  I ask,  mein  Herr,  which  is  the  direction  of  the 
town,  and  where  I can  find  an  inn?”  said  I,  taking  off  my 
hat  most  punctiliously;  for  although  it  was  almost  pitch- 
dark,  that  courtesy  cannot  ever  be  omitted,  and  I have 
heard  of  a German  who  never  talked  to  himself  without 
uncovering. 

“ Straightforward,  and  then  to  your  left  by  the  angle  of 
the  citadel ; you  can  take  a short  cut  through  the  covered 
way  — ” 

“Heaven  forbid!”  interrupted  I;  “where  all  is  fair  and 
open  my  chance  is  bad  enough ; there  is  no  need  of  a con- 
cealed passage  to  confuse  me.” 

“Come  with  me,  then,”  said  he,  laughing;  “I  perceive 
you  are  a foreigner;  this  is  somewhat  longer,  but  I ’ll  see 
you  safe  to  the  Kaiser,  where  you  ’ll  find  yourself  very 
comfortable.” 

My  guide  was  an  officer  of  the  garrison,  and  seemed 
considerably  flattered  by  the  testimony  I bore  to  the 
impregnability  of  the  fortress,  describing  as  we  went 


480 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


along,  for  my  better  instruction,  the  various  remarkable 
features  of  the  place.  Lord ! how  weary  I was  of  case- 
mates and  embrasures,  of  bomb-proofs  and  culverins, 
half-moons  and  platforms ! But  as  I continued,  from 
politeness,  to  express  my  surprise  and  wonderment,  he 
took  the  more  pains  to  expound  those  hidden  treasures; 
and  I verily  believe  he  took  me  a mile  out  of  my  way  to 
point  out  the  place,  in  the  dark,  where  a large  gun  lay  that 
took  a charge  of  one  hundred  and  seventy  livres  weight.  I 
was  now  fairly  done  up,  and  having  sworn  solemnly  that 
the  French  army  dare  not  show  their  noses  this  side  of  the 
Rhine  so  long  as  a corporal’s  guard  remained  at  Erfurt,  I 
begged  hard  to  have  a peep  at  the  Kaiser. 

“Won’t  you  see  the  Rothen  Stein?”  said  he. 

“To-morrow,  — if  I survive,”  said  I,  dropping  my  voice 
for  the  last  words. 

“Nor  the  Wunder  Brucke?” 

“With  God’s  blessing,  to-morrow,  I’ll  visit  them  all; 
I came  for  the  purpose.”  Heaven  pardon  the  lie,  I was 
almost  fainting! 

“ Be  it  so,  then,  ” said  he ; “ we  must  go  back  again  now. 
We  have  come  a good  distance  out  of  our  road.” 

With  a heavy  groan  I turned  back;  and  if  I did  not 
curse  Vauban  and  Carnot,  it  was  because  I am  a good 
Christian,  and  of  a most  forgiving  temper. 

“Here  we  are  now;  this  is  the  Kaiser,”  said  he,  as  after 
half  an  hour’s  sharp  walking  we  stood  within  a huge  arch- 
way, dimly  lighted  by  a great  old-fashioned  lantern.  “ You 
stop  here  some  days,  I think  you  said?” 

“Yes,  for  a fortnight;  or  a week,  at  least.” 

“Well,  if  you’ll  permit  me,  I shall  have  great  pleasure 
in  conducting  you  through  the  fortress  to-morrow  and 
next  day.  You  can’t  see  it  all  under  two  days;  and  even 
with  that,  you  ’ll  have  to  omit  the  arsenals  and  the  shot- 
batteries.” 

I expressed  my  most  grateful  acknowledgments,  with  an 
inward  vow  that  if  I took  refuge  in  the  big  mortar  I ’d  not 
be  caught  by  my  friend  the  next  morning. 

“Good-night,  then,”  said  he,  with  a polite  bow.  “Bis 
Morgen.” 


THE  FORTRESS. 


481 


“Bis  Morgen,”  repeated  I,  and  entered  the  Kaiser. 

The  Romischer  Kaiser  was  a great  place  once;  but  now, 
alas  ! its  “Liana  is  fallen  ! ” Time  was  when  two  emperors 
slept  beneath  its  roof,  and  the  ambassadors  of  kings  assem- 
bled within  its  walls.  It  was  here  Napoleon  exercised  that 
wonderful  spell  of  enchantment  he  possessed  above  all  other 
men,  and  so  captivated  the  mind  of  the  Emperor  Alexander 
that  not  even  all  the  subsequent  invasion  of  his  empire, 
nor  the  disasters  of  Moscow,  could  eradicate  the  impres- 
sion. The  Czar  alone  of  his  enemies  would  have  made 
terms  with  him  in  1814;  and  when  no  other  voice  was 
raised  in  his  favor,  Alexander’s  was  heard  commemorat- 
ing their  ancient  friendship,  and  recalling  the  time  when 
they  had  been  like  brothers.  Erfurt  was  the  scene  of  their 
first  friendship.  Many  now  living  have  seen  Napoleon 
with  his  arm  linked  within  Alexander’s  as  they  walked 
along,  and  marked  the  spell-bound  attention  of  the  Czar 
as  he  listened  to  the  burning  words  and  rapid  eloquence  of 
Buonaparte,  who  with  a policy  all  his  own  devoted  himself 
completely  to  the  young  emperor,  and  resolved  on  winning 
him  over.  They  dined,  and  went  to  the  theatre  together 
each  evening;  and  the  flattery  of  this  preference,  so  osten- 
tatiously paraded  by  Napoleon,  had  its  full  effect  on  the 
ardent  imagination  and  chivalrous  heart  of  the  youthful 
Czar.  Fetes,  reviews,  gala  parties,  and  concerts  followed 
one  another  in  quick  succession.  The  corps  of  the  Fran- 
cis was  brought  expressly  from  Paris;  the  ballet  of  the 
Opera  also  came;  and  nothing  was  omitted  which  could 
amuse  the  hours  of  Alexander,  and  testify  the  desire  of 
his  host  — for  such  Napoleon  was  — to  entertain  him  with 
honor.  Little,  then,  did  Napoleon  dream  that  the  frank- 
hearted  youth  who  hung  on  every  word  he  spoke  would 
one  day  prove  the  most  obstinate  of  all  his  enemies;  nor 
was  it  for  many  a day  after  that  he  uttered  in  the  bitter 
venom  of  disappointment,  when  the  rugged  energy  of  the 
Muscovite  showed  an  indomitable  front  to  the  strength  of 
his  armies  and  was  deaf  to  his  attempted  negotiations, 
“Scrape  the  Russian,  and  you’ll  come  down  on  the 
Tartar.  ” 

Alexander  was  indeed  the  worthy  grandson  of  Catherine, 

31 


482 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


and  however  a feeling  of  personal  regard  for  Napoleon 
existed  through  the  vicissitudes  of  after-life,  it  is  no  less 
true  that  the  dissimulation  of  the  Russian  had  imposed  on 
the  Corsican;  and  that  while  Napoleon  believed  him  all  his 
own,  the  duplicity  of  the  Muscovite  had  overreached  him. 
It  was  in  reference  to  that  interview  and  its  pledged  good 
faith,  that  Napoleon,  in  one  of  his  cutting  sarcasms,  pro- 
nounced him  “Faux  comme  un  Grec  du  Bas  Empire.” 

Nothing  troubled  the  happiness  of  the  meeting  at  Erfurt. 
It  was  a joyous  and  a splendid  fete,  where  amid  all  the 
blandishments  of  luxury  and  pleasure  two  great  kings 
divided  the  world  at  their  will.  It  was  Constantine  and 
Charlemagne,  who  partitioned  the  East  and  West  between 
each  other.  The  sad  and  sorrow-struck  King  of  Prussia 
came  not  there  as  at  Tilsit;  nor  the  fair  Queen  of  that  un- 
happy kingdom,  whose  beauty  and  misfortunes  might  well 
have  claimed  the  compassion  of  the  conqueror. 

Never  was  Napoleon’s  character  exhibited  in  a point  of 
view  less  amiable  than  in  his  relations  with  the  Queen  of 
Prussia.  If  her  position  and  her  personal  attractions  had 
no  influence  over  him,  the  devoted  attachment  of  her  whole 
nation  towards  her  should  have  had  that  effect.  There  was 
something  unmanly  in  the  cruelty  that  replied  to  her  sup- 
plication in  favor  of  her  country,  by  trifling  allusions  to 
the  last  fashions  of  Paris  and  the  costumes  of  the  Boule- 
vard; and  when  she  accepted  the  moss-rose  from  his  hand, 
and  tremblingly  uttered  the  words,  “Sire,  avec  Magde- 
bourg?”  a more  suitable  rejection  of  her  suit  might  have 
been  found  than  the  abrupt  “Non!”  of  Napoleon,  as  he 
turned  his  back  and  left  her.  There  was  something  pro- 
phetic in  her  speech,  when,  relating  the  anecdote  herself 
to  Hardenberg,  she  added,  “That  man  is  too  pitiless  to 
misfortune  ever  to  support  it  himself,  should  it  be  his 
lot!  ” 

But  what  mean  all  these  reflections,  Arthur?  These  be 
matters  of  history  which  the  world  knows  as  well  or  better 
than  thyself.  “Que  diable  allez-vous  faire  dans  cette 
galere?”  Alas!  this  comes  of  supping  in  the  Speiss  Saal 
of  the  Kaiser,  and  chatting  with  the  great  round-faced 
Prussian  in  uniform  at  the  head  of  the  table;  he  was  a 


THE  FORTRESS. 


483 


lieutenant  of  the  Guard  at  Tilsit,  and  also  at  Erfurt  with 
dispatches  in  1808;  he  had  a hundred  pleasant  stories  of 
the  fetes,  and  of  the  droll  mistakes  the  body-guard  of  the 
Czar  used  to  fall  into  by  ignorance  of  the  habits  and  cus- 
toms of  civilized  life.  They  were  Bashkirs,  and  always 
bivouacked  in  the  open  street  before  the  Emperor’s  quar- 
ters, and  spent  the  whole  night  chanting  a wild  and  savage 
song,  which  some  took  up  as  others  slept;  and  when  day 
broke  the  whole  concluded  with  a dance,  which,  from  the 
description  I had  of  it,  must  have  been  something  of  the 
most  uncouth  and  fearful  that  could  be  conceived.  Napo- 
leon admired  those  fellows  greatly,  and  more  than  one 
among  them  left  Erfurt  with  the  cross  of  the  Legion  at  his 
breast. 

Tired  and  weary  as  I was,  I sat  up  long  past  midnight, 
listening  to  the  Prussian  who  rolled  out  his  reminiscences 
between  huge  volumes  of  smoke  in  the  most  amusing 
fashion.  And  when  I did  retire  to  rest,  it  was  to  fall  into 
a fearful  dream  about  Bashkirs  and  bastions,  half-moons, 
hot  shot,  and  bomb-proofs,  that  never  left  me  till  morning 
broke. 

“The  Rittmeister  von  Otterstadt  presents  his  compli- 
ments,” said  the  waiter,  awakening  me  from  a heavy 
sleep, — “presents  his  compliments  — ” 

“Who?”  cried  I,  with  a shudder. 

“ The  Rittmeister  von  Otterstadt,  who  promised  to  show 
you  the  fortress.” 

“I ’m  ill,  seriously  ill,”  said  I;  “I  should  not  be  sur- 
prised if  it  Avere  a fever.” 

“ Probably  so,  ” echoed  the  immovable  German,  and  went 
on  with  his  message.  “ The  Herr  Rittmeister  regrets  much 
that  he  is  ordered  away  on  court-martial  duty  to  Enten- 
burg,  and  cannot  have  the  honor  of  accompanying  you  be- 
fore Saturday,  when  — ” 

“With  Heaven’s  assistance,  T shall  be  out  of  the  visible 
horizon  of  Erfurt,”  said  I,  finishing  the  sentence  for  him. 

Never  was  there  a mind  so  relieved  as  mine  was  by  this 
intelligence;  the  horrors  of  that  two  days’  perambulations 
through  arched  passages,  up  and  down  flights  of  stone 
steps,  and  into  caves  and  cells  of  whose  uses  and  objects 


484 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


I had  not  the  most  remote  conception,  had  given  me  a 
night  of  fearful  dreams,  and  now  I was  free  once  more. 
Long  live  the  King  of  Prussia,  say  I,  who  keeps  up  smart 
discipline  in  his  army;  and  I fervently  trust  that  court- 
martial  may  be  thoroughly  digested  and  maturely  con- 
sidered; and  the  odds  are  in  my  favor  that  I ’in  off  before 
it ’s  over. 

What  is  it,  I wonder,  that  makes  the  inhabitants  of  for- 
tified towns  always  so  stupid?  Is  such  the  fact?  first  of 
all,  asks  some  one  of  my  readers.  Not  a doubt  of  it;  if 
you  ever  visited  them  and  passed  a week  or  two  within 
their  walls,  you  would  scarcely  ask  the  question.  Can 
curtains  and  bastions,  fosses  and  half-moons,  exclude  in- 
telligence as  effectually  as  they  do  an  enemy?  Are  bat- 
teries as  fatal  to  pleasure  as  they  are  to  platoons?  I 
cannot  say;  but  what  I can  and  will  say  is,  that  the  most 
melancholy  days  and  nights  I ever  passed  have  been  in 
great  fortresses.  Where  the  works  are  old  and  tumbling, 
some  little  light  of  the  world  without  will  creep  in  through 
the  chinks  and  crevices,  as  at  Antwerp  and  Mentz;  but  let 
them  be  well  looked  to, — the  fosses  full,  no  weeds  on  the 
ramparts,  the  palisades  painted  smart  green,  and  the  sentry- 
boxes  to  match, — and  God  help  you! 

There  must  be  something  in  the  humdrum  routine  of 
military  duty  that  has  its  effect  upon  the  inhabitants. 
They  get  up  at  morning  by  a signal-gun,  and  they  go  to 
bed  by  another;  they  dine  by  beat  of  drum,  and  the  gar- 
rison gives  the  word  of  command  for  every  hour  in  the 
twenty-four.  There  is  no  stir,  no  movement;  a patrol  or 
a fatigue  party  are  the  only  things  you  meet,  and  when 
you  prick  up  your  ears  at  the  roll  of  wheels,  it  turns  out 
to  be  only  a tumbrel  with  a corporal’s  guard!  Theatres 
can  scarcely  exist  in  such  places;  a library  would  die  in 
a week;  there  are  no  soirees,  no  society.  Billiards  and 
beer  form  the  staple  of  officers’  pleasures  in  a foreign 
army,  and  certainly  they  have  one  recommendation, — they 
are  cheap. 

Now,  as  there  was  little  to  see  in  Erfurt,  and  still  less 
to  do,  I made  up  my  mind  to  start  early  the  next  day,  and 
push  forward  to  Weimar, — a good  resolution  as  far  as  it 


THE  FORTRESS. 


485 


went;  but  then,  how  was  the  clay  to  be  passed?  People 
dine  at  one  in  Germany,  or  if  they  wish  to  push  matters  to 
a fashionable  extreme,  they  say  “two.”  How  is  the  in- 
terval till  dark  to  be  filled  up,  taking  it  for  granted  you 
have  provided  some  occupation  for  that?  Coffee  and  smok- 
ing will  do  something,  but  except  to  a German  they  can't 
fill  up  six  mortal  hours.  Reading  is  out  of  the  question 
after  such  a dinner;  riding  would  give  you  apoplexy;  sleep 
alone  is  the  resource.  Sleep,  “that  wraps  a man  as  in  a 
blanket,”  as  honest  Sancho  says;  and  sooth  to  say  one  is 
fit  for  little  else.  And  so,  having  ordered  a pen  and  ink 
to  my  room,  as  if  I were  about  to  write  various  letters,  I 
closed  the  door  — and  my  eyes  within  five  minutes  after, 
and  never  awoke  till  the  bang  of  a “ short  eighteen  ” struck 
six. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


A PLAY  BY  COMMAND. 

“Which  is  the  way  to  the  theatre?”  said  I to  an  urchin 
who  stood  at  the  inn  door,  in  that  professional  attitude  of 
waiting  which  your  street  runners  in  all  cities  can  so  well 
assume;  for  holding  a horse  and  ringing  a bell  are  accom- 
plishments, however  little  some  people  may  deem  them. 

“The  theatre?”  echoed  he,  measuring  me  leisurely  from 
head  to  foot,  and  not  stirring  from  his  place. 

“Yes,”  said  I;  “they  told  me  there  was  one  here,  and 
that  they  played  to-night.” 

“Possibly,”  with  a shrug  of  the  shoulders,  was  the  reply, 
and  he  smoked  his  short  pipe  as  carelessly  as  before. 

“Come,  then,  show  me  the  way,”  said  I,  pulling  out 
some  kreutzers;  “put  up  that  pipe  for  ten  minutes,  and 
lead  on.” 

The  jingle  of  the  copper  coin  awakened  his  intelligence, 
and  though  he  could  not  fathom  my  antipathy  to  the  fumes 
of  bad  tobacco,  he  deposited  the  weapon  in  his  capacious 
side-pocket,  and  with  a short  nod  bade  me  follow  him. 

Nowhere  does  nationality  exhibit  itself  so  strikingly  as 
in  the  conduct  and  bearing  of  the  people  who  show  you  the 
way  in  different  cities.  Your  German  is  sententious  and 
solemn  as  an  elephant.  He  goes  plodding  along  with  his 
head  down  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  answering  your 
questions  with  a sulky  monosyllable,  and  seeming  annoyed 
when  not  left  to  his  own  meditations.  The  Frenchman 
thinks,  on  the  contrary,  that  he  is  bound  to  be  agreeable 
and  entertaining;  he  is  doing  the  honors  of  La  Grande 
Nation,  and  it  stands  him  upon  that  you  are  not  to  go  away 
discontented  with  the  politeness  of  “the  only  civilized 
people  of  Europe.”  Paddy  has  some  of  this  spirit,  too, 
but  less  on  national  than  individual  grounds;  he  likes 
conversation,  and  leads  the  way  to  it;  besides,  no  one, 


A PLAY  BY  COMMAND. 


4S7 


while  affecting  to  give  information  himself,  can  pump  a 
stranger  like  an  Irishman.  The  Yankee  plan  is  cross-ex- 
amination outright,  and  no  disguise  about  it;  if  he  shows 
the  way  to  one  place,  it  is  because  you  must  tell  him 
where  you  came  from  last;  while  John  Bull,  with  a brief 
“Don’t  know,  I’m  sure,”  is  equally  indifferent  to  your 
road  and  your  fortune,  and  has  no  room  for  any  thoughts 
about  you. 

My  avant  courier  was  worthy  of  his  country;  if  every 
word  had  cost  him  a molar  tooth  he  could  n’t  have  been 
more  sparing  of  them,  and  when  by  chance  I either  did 
not  hear  or  rightly  understand  what  he  did  say,  nothing 
could  induce  him  to  repeat  it;  and  so  on  we  went  from  the 
more  frequented  part  of  the  town  till  we  arrived  at  a quar- 
ter of  narrow  streets  and  poor-looking  houses,  over  the 
roofs  of  which  I could  from  time  to  time  catch  glimpses  of 
the  fortifications,  for  we  were  at  the  extreme  limits  of  the 
place. 

“Are  you  quite  certain  this  is  the  way,  my  lad?”  said 
I,  for  I began  to  fear  lest  he  might  have  mistaken  the  ob- 
ject of  my  inquiry. 

“Yes,  yes;  there  it  was, — there  was  the  theatre,”  and 
he  pointed  to  a large  building  of  dark  stone,  which  closed 
the  end  of  the  street,  and  on  the  walls  of  which  various 
placards  and  announcements  were  posted,  which  on  coming 
nearer  I found  were  bills  for  their  night’s  performance, 
setting  forth  how  the  servants  of  his  Majesty  would  per 
form  “Den  Junker  in  den  Residentz,”  and  the  afterpiece 
of  “Krahwinkel.”  There  was  a very  flourishing  catalogue 
of  actors  and  actresses,  with  names  as  hard  as  the  dishes 
in  a bill  of  fare;  and  something  about  a “ballet”  and  a 
“musical  intermezzo.” 

Come,  said  I to  myself,  this  is  a piece  of  good  fortune! 
And  so  dismissing  my  little  foot  page,  I turned  to  the 
door,  which  stood  within  a deep  porch.  What  was  my 
amazement,  however,  to  find  it  closed  ! I looked  on  every 
side,  but  there  was  no  other  entrance;  besides,  the  printed 
list  of  places  and  their  prices  left  no  doubt  that  this  was 
the  regular  place  of  admission.  There ’s  no  knowing,  after 
all,  thought  I, — these  Germans  are  strange  folks;  perhaps 


488 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


they  don’t  open  the  door  without  knocking,  and  so  here 
goes. 

“In  Himmel’s  namen  was  istdas?”  screamed  an  angry 
voice,  as  a very  undignified-looking  vrau  peeped  from  a 
window  of  a foot  square  above  the  door.  “ What  do  you 
want  with  that  uproar  there?  ” roared  she,  louder  than 
before. 

“I  want  to  get  in;  a place  in  the  boxes  or  a stalle  in  the 
balcony, — anywhere  will  do.” 

“What  for?”  cried  she  again. 

“What  for?  For  the  play,  to  be  sure;  for  the  ‘Junker 
in  den  Residentz.’  ” 

“He  is  not  here  at  all;  go  your  ways,  or  I ’ll  call  the 
polizey,”  yelled  she,  while,  banging  the  window,  there 
was  an  end  of  the  dialogue. 

“Can  I be  of  any  service  to  you,  mein  Herr?”  said  a 
portly  little  fellow  without  a coat,  who  was  smoking  at  his 
door.  “ What  is  it  you  want?  ” 

“I  came  to  see  a play,”  said  I,  in  amazement  at  the 
whole  proceedings;  “and  here  I find  nothing  but  an  old 
beldam  that  threatens  me  with  the  police.” 

“Ah,  as  for  the  play  I don’t  know,”  replied  he,  scratch- 
ing his  head;  “but  come  with  me  over  here  to  the  Fox, 
and  we  ’re  sure  to  see  the  Herr  Director.” 

“But  I ’ve  nothing  to  do  with  the  Herr  Director,”  said 
I;  “if  there’s  no  performance  I must  only  go  back  again, 
— that ’s  all.” 

“Ah,  but  there  may,  though,”  rejoined  my  friend;  “come 
along  and  see  the  Herr  himself.  I know  him  well,  and 
he’ll  tell  you  all  about  it.” 

The  proposition  was  at  least  novel,  and  as  the  world 
goes  that  same  is  not  without  its  advantages;  and  so  I ac- 
ceded, and  followed  my  new  guide,  who  in  the  careless 
negligee  of  a waistcoat  and  breeches  waddled  along  be- 
fore me. 

The  Fox  was  an  old-fashioned  house  of  framed  wood, 
with  queer  diamond-shaped  panes  to  the  windows,  and  a 
great  armorial  coat  over  the  door,  where  a fox,  in  black 
oak,  stood  out  conspicuously.  Scarcely  had  we  entered 
the  low-arched  door,  when  the  fumes  of  schnaps  and 


A PLAY  BY  COMMAND. 


489 


tobacco  nearly  suffocated  me;  while  the  merry  chorus 
of  a drinking  song  proclaimed  that  a jolly  party  was 
assembled. 

I already  repented  of  my  folly  in  yielding  to  the  strange 
man’s  proposal,  and  had  he  been  near,  would  at  once  have 
declined  any  further  step  in  the  matter;  but  he  had  disap- 
peared in  the  clouds, — the  disc  of  his  drab  shorts  was  all 
1 could  perceive  through  the  nebulae.  It  was  confoundedly 
awkward,  so  it  was.  What  right  had  I to  hunt  down  the 
Herr  Director,  and  disturb  him  in  his  lair?  It  was  enough 
that  there  was  no  play;  any  other  man  would  have  quietly 
returned  home  again,  when  he  saw  such  was  the  case. 

While  I revolved  these  thoughts  with  myself,  my  fat 
friend  issued  from  the  mist,  followed  by  a tall  thin  man, 
dressed  in  deep  black,  with  tights  and  hessians  of  admira- 
ble fit;  a pair  of  large  bushy  whiskers  bisected  his  face, 
meeting  at  the  corners  of  his  nose;  while  a sharp  and 
pointed  chin-tuft  seemed  to  prolong  the  lower  part  of  his 
countenance  to  an  immense  extent. 

Before  the  short  man  had  well  uttered  his  announcement 
of  the  “Herr  Director,”  I had  launched  forth  into  the  most 
profuse  apologies  for  my  unwarrantable  intrusion,  express- 
ing in  all  the  German  I could  muster  the  extent  of  my  sor- 
row, and  ringing  the  changes  of  my  grief  and  my  modesty, 
my  modesty  and  my  grief;  at  last  I gave  in,  fairly  floored 
for  want  of  the  confounded  verb  with  which  one  must 
always  clinch  the  end  of  a sentence  in  German. 

“It  was  to  see  the  play,  then,  Monsieur  came?”  said  the 
Director,  inquiringly,  — for,  alas  ! my  explanation  had  been 
none  of  the  clearest. 

“Yes,”  said  I,  “for  the  play;  but  — ” 

Before  I could  finish  the  sentence,  he  flung  himself  into 
my  arms,  and  cried  out  with  enthusiasm,  “Du  bist  mein. 
Vater’s  Sohn  ! ” 

This  piece  of  family  information  was  unquestionably 
new  to  me,  but  I disengaged  myself  from  my  brother’s 
arms,  curious  to  know  the  meaning  of  such  enthusiasm. 

“And  so  you  came  to  see  the  play?”  cried  he,  in  a 
transport,  while  he  threw  himself  into  a stage  attitude  of 
great  effect. 


490 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“Yes,”  said  I,  “to  see  the  ‘Junker,’  and  ‘Krahwinkel.’ n 

“ Ach  Gott!  that  was  fine,  that  was  noble  ! ” 

Now,  how  any  man’s  enterprising  a five-franc  piece  or 
two  gulden-mlintze  could  deserve  such  epithets  would 
have  puzzled  me  at  another  moment;  but,  as  the  drama- 
tist said,  I was  n’t  going  to  “ mind  squibs  after  sitting 
over  a barrel  of  gunpowder,  ” and  I did  n’t  pay  the  least 
attention  to  it. 

“Give  me  your  hand  ! ” cried  he,  in  a rapture,  “and  let 
me  call  you  friend.” 

The  Director  is  mad  as  a March  hare  ! thought  I,  and 
I wished  myself  well  out  of  the  whole  adventure. 

“But  as  there ’s  no  play,”  said  I,  “another  night  will  do 
as  well ; I shall  remain  here  for  a week  to  come,  perhaps 
longer  — ” But  while  I went  on  expressing  the  great 
probability  of  my  passing  a winter  at  Erfurt,  he  never  paid 
the  least  attention  to  my  observations,  but  seemed  sunk  in 
meditation,  occasionally  dropping  in  a stray  phrase,  as 
thus, — 

“Die  Wurtzel  is  sick;  that  is,  she  is  at  the  music  gar- 
den with  the  officers.  Then,  Blum  is  drunk  by  this,  and 
der  Ettenbaum  could  n’t  sing  a note  after  his  supper  of 
schenkin.  But  then  there ’s  Grundenwald,  and  Catinka, 
to  be  sure,  and  Alte  Kreps : we  ’ll  do  it,  we  ’ll  do  it ! Come 
along,  mein  aller  Liebster,  and  choose  the  best  loge  du 
jj rentier ; take  two,  three,  if  you  like  it, — you  shall  see  a 
play.” 

“ What  do  you  mean?  You  are  surely  not  going  to  open 
the  house  for  me  ! ” 

“Ain’t  I though!  you  shall  soon  see.  It’s  the  only 
audience  I ever  had  in  Erfurt,  and  I ’m  not  going  to  lose 
it.  Know,  most  worthy  friend,”  continued  he  with  a most 
melodramatic  tone  and  gesture,  “that  to-night  is  the 
twelfth  time  I have  given  out  an  announcement  of  a play, 
and  yet  never  was  able  to  attract  — I will  not  say  an  audi- 
ence, but  not  a row,  not  a loge,  not  even  a stalle  in  the 
balcony.  I opened  — why  do  I say  I opened?  I adver- 
tised, the  first  night,  Schiller’s  ‘Maria  Stuart, ’ — you  know 
the  Maria:  well,  such  a Madchen  as  we  have  for  the  part! 
such  tenderness,  such  music  in  her  voice,  such  grace  and 


A PLAY  BY  COMMAND. 


491 


majesty  in  every  movement!  you  shall  see  for  yourself, — 
Catinka  is  here.  Then  I gave  out  ‘Nathan  der  Weise,’ 
then  the  ‘Goetz,’  then  ‘Lust  und  Liebe, ’ — why  do  I go  on? 
In  a word,  I went  through  all  our  dramatic  authors  from 
Schiller,  Goethe,  Lessing,  Werner,  Grillparzer,  down  to 
Kotzebue,  whose  two  pieces  I advertised  for  this  evening.” 

“ But,  pardon  my  interruption,  did  you  always  keep  the 
doors  closed  as  I found  them?  ” 

“Not  at  first,”  responded  he,  solemnly;  “the  doors  were 
open,  and  a system  of  telegraphs  established  between  the 
bureau  for  payment  and  the  orchestra,  by  which  the  foot- 
lights were  to  be  illuminated  on  the  arrival  of  the  first 
visitor;  but  the  bassoon  and  the  drum,  the  clarinet  and 
the  oboe,  stood  like  cannoneers,  match  in  hand,  from  half- 
past six  till  eight,  and  never  came  the  word  ‘Fire!  ’ But 
here  we  are.” 

With  these  words  he  produced  from  his  pocket  a mas- 
sive key,  with  which  he  unlocked  the  door  and  led  me  for- 
ward by  the  arm  into  a dark  passage,  followed  by  our 
coatless  friend,  whom  he  addressed  as  Herr  Stauf,  desiring 
him  to  come  in  also.  While  the  Herr  Director  was  waiting 
for  a light,  which  the  vrau  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  bring,  he 
continued  his  recital. 

“When  I perceived  matters  were  thus,  I vowed  two 
vows,  solemnly  and  before  the  whole  corps, — ballet, 
chorus,  and  all.  First,  that  I would  give  twelve  repre- 
sentations — I mean  announcements  of  representations  — 
from  twelve  separate  dramatists  before  I left  Erfurt;  and, 
secondly,  that  for  a single  spectator  I would  open  the 
house  and  have  a play  acted.  One  part  of  my  oath  is 
already  accomplished;  your  appearance  calls  on  me  for 
the  other.  This  over,  I shall  leave  Erfurt  forever;  and 
if,”  continued  he,  “the  Fates  ever  discover  me  again 
within  the  walls  of  a fortified  town, — unless  I be  sent 
there  in  handcuffs  and  with  a peloton  of  dragoons, — may 
I never  cork  my  eyebrows  while  I live  ! ” 

This  resolve,  so  perfectly  in  accordance  with  the  medi- 
tations T had  lately  indulged  in  myself,  gave  me  a higher 
opinion  of  the  Herr  Director’s  judgment,  and  I followed 
him  with  a more  tranquil  conscience  than  at  first. 


492 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“There  are  four  steps  there, — take  care,”  cried  he,  “and 
feel  along  by  the  wall  here;  for  though  this  place  should 
be,  and  indeed  is  by  right,  one  blaze  of  lamps,  I must  now 
conduct  you  by  this  miserable  candle.” 

And  so,  through  many  a narrow  passage  and  narrower 
door,  upstairs  and  down,  over  benches  and  under  partitions 
we  went,  until  at  length  we  arrived  upon  the  stage  itself. 
The  curtain  was  up,  and  before  it  in  yawning  blackness 
lay  the  audience  part  of  the  house, — a gloomy  and  dreary 
cavern;  the  dark  cells  of  the  boxes  and  the  long,  unten- 
anted benches  of  the  balcony  had  an  effect  of  melancholy 
desolation  impossible  to  convey.  Up  above,  the  various 
skies  and  moon-scenes  hung,  flapping  to  and  fro  with  the 
cold  wind,  that  came,  Heaven  knows  whence,  but  with  a 
piercing  sharpness  I never  felt  the  equal  of  within  doors; 
while  the  back  of  the  stage  was  lost  in  a dim  distance, 
where  fragments  of  huts  and  woods,  mills,  mountains,  and 
rustic  bridges,  lay  discordantly  intermixed, — the  chaos  of 
a stage  world.  The  Herr  Director  waved  his  dip-candle 
to  and  fro  above  his  head,  like  a stage  musician  invoking 
spirits  and  goblins  damned,  while  he  repeated,  from  one  of 
Werner’s  pieces,  some  lines  of  an  incantation. 

“ Gelobt  sey  Marie ! ” said  the  Herr  Stauf,  blessing  him- 
self devoutly,  for  he  had  looked  upon  the  whole  as  an  act 
of  devotion. 

“And  now,  friend,”  continued  the  Director,  “wait  here 
at  this  fountain,  and  I will  return  in  a few  minutes ; ” so 
saying  he  quitted  the  place,  leaving  Stauf  and  myself  in 
perfect  darkness, — a circumstance  which  I soon  discov- 
ered was  not  a whit  more  gratifying  to  my  friend  than  to 
myself. 

“This  is  a fearful  place  to  be  in  the  dark,”  quoth  Stauf, 
edging  close  up  to  me;  “you  don’t  know,  but  I do,  that 
this  was  the  Augustine  Convent  formerly,  and  the  monks 
were  all  murdered  by  the  Elector  Frederick  in — What 
was  that?  Did  n’t  you  see  something  like  a blue  flame 
yonder?  ” 

“Well,  and  what  then?  You  know  these  people  have  a 
hundred  contrivances  for  stage  piirposes  — ” 

“ Ach  Gott!  that ’s  true;  but  I wish  I was  out  again,  in 


A PLAY  BY  COMMAND. 


493 


the  Mohren  Gasse.  I ’m  only  a poor  sausage-maker,  and 
one  needn’t  be  brave  for  my  trade.” 

“Come,  come,  take  courage!  here  comes  the  Herr  Direc- 
tor,” and  with  that  he  entered  with  two  candles  in  large 
gilt  candlesticks. 

“Now,  friend,”  said  he,  “where  will  you  sit?  My  ad- 
vice is,  the  orchestra;  take  a place  near  the  middle,  behind 
the  leader’s  bench,  and  you  ’ll  be  out  of  the  draught  of 
wind.  Stauf,  do  you  hold  the  candles,  and  sit  in  the 
pupitre.  You  ’ll  excuse  my  lighting  the  foot-lights,  won’t 
you?  Well,  what  do  you  say  to  a great-coat?  You  feel 
it  cold, — I see  you  do.” 

“If  not  too  much  trouble  — ” 

“Not  at  all, — don’t  speak  of  it;”  and  with  that  he 
slipped  behind  the  flats,  and  returned  in  an  instant  with  a 
huge  fur-mantle  of  mock  sable.  “ I wear  that  in  ‘ Otto 
von  Bolnnen,’  ” said  he,  proudly;  “and  it  always  produces 
an  immense  effect.  It  is  in  that  same  peltzer  I stab  the 
king,  in  the  fourth  act.  Do  you  remember  where  he  says 
(it  is  at  the  chess  table),  ‘ Check  to  the  Queen ! ’ then  I 
reply,  ‘ Zum  Koenig,  selbst,’  and  run  him  through.” 

“ Gott  bewahr  ! ” piously  ejaculated  Stauf,  who  seemed 
quite  beyond  all  chance  of  distinguishing  fiction  from 
reality. 

“You’ll  have  to  wait  ten  or  twenty  minutes,  I fear,” 
said  the  Director.  “Der  Catinka  can’t  be  found,  and  Der 
Ungedroht  has  just  washed  his  doublet,  and  can’t  appear 
till  it’s  dry;  but  we’ll  give  you  the  Krahwinkel  in  good 
style.  You  shall  be  content;  and  now  I must  go  dress 
too.” 

“He  is  a strange  carl,”  said  Stauf,  as  he  sat  upon  a tall 
bench,  like  an  office  stool;  “but  I wish  from  my  soul  it  was 
over ! ” 

I can’t  say  I did  not  participate  in  the  wish,  notwith- 
standing a certain  curiosity  to  have  a peep  at  the  rest  of 
the  company.  I had  seen,  in  my  day,  some  droll  exhibi- 
tions in  the  dramatic  way;  but  this,  certainly  if  not  the 
most  amusing,  was  the  very  strangest  of  them  all.  I 
remember  one  at  Corfu,  where  an  Italian  company  came 
nne  winter,  and  gave  a series  of  operas,  amongst  others, 


494 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


“II  Turco  in  Italia.”  The  strength  of  the  corps  did  not, 
however,  permit  of  their  being  equal  to  those  armies  of 
Turks  and  Italians  who  occasionally  figure  en  scene , and 
they  were  driven  to  ask  assistance  from  the  Commandant 
of  the  garrison,  who  very  readily  lent  them  a company 
of,  I believe,  the  Eighty -eighth  regiment.  The  worthy 
Director  had  sad  work  to  drill  his  troops,  for  unhappily 
he  couldn’t  speak  a word  of  English,  and  as  they  knew 
little  or  no  Italian  he  was  reduced  to  signs  and  pantomime. 
When  the  piece,  however,  was  going  forward,  and  the  two 
rival  armies  should  alternately  attack  and  repulse  each 
other,  the  luckless  Director,  unable  to  make  them  fight 
and  rally  to  the  quick  movement  of  the  orchestra,  was 
heard  shouting  out  behind  the  scenes,  in  wild  excitement, 
“ Avanti  Turki ! Avanti  Christian!  ! Ah,  bravo  Turki ! 
Maledetti  Christiani ! ” which  threw  the  whole  audience 
into  a perfect  paroxysm  of  laughter. 

Come,  then,  thought  I,  who  knows  but  this  may  be  as 
good  as  Corfu?  But  lo!  here  he  comes;  and  now  the 
Director,  dressed  in  the  character  of  the  Herr  Berg-Bau 
und  Weg-lnspector,  came  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  and, 
beginning  thus,  spoke,  — 

“Meine  Herren  und  Damen — There  are  no  ladies,” 
said  he,  stopping  short;  “but  whose  fault  is  that? 
Meine  Herren,  it  grieves  me  much  to  be  obliged  on  this 
occasion — Make  a row  there,  why  don’t  you?”  said  he, 
addressing  me,  — “ ran -tan-tan  ! An  apology  is  always  in- 
terrupted by  the  audience;  if  it  were  not,  one  could  never 
get  through  it.” 

I followed  his  directions  by  hammering  on  the  bench 
with  my  cane ; and  he  continued  to  explain  that  various 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  corps  were  seriously  indis- 
posed, and  that,  though  the  piece  should  go  on,  it  must  be 
with  only  three  out  of  the  seven  characters.  I renewed 
my  marks  of  disapprobation  here,  which  seemed  to  afford 
him  great  delight,  and  lie  withdrew,  bowing  respectfully 
to  every  quarter  of  the  house. 

“ Kotzebue’s  Kralnvinkel,”  as  many  of  my  readers  know, 
needs  not  the  additional  absurdity  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  I saw  it  performed  to  make  it  ludicrous  and 


A PLAY  BY  COMMAND. 


495 


laughable.  The  Herr  Director  played  to  the  life;  and 
Catinka,  a pretty,  plump,  fair-haired  fritulein,  — not, 
however,  exactly  the  idea  of  Marie  Stuart,  — was  admira- 
ble in  her  part.  Even  Stauf  himself  was  so  carried  away 
by  his  enthusiasm  that  he  laid  down  his  candles  to  applaud; 
and,  for  the  extent  of  the  audience,  I venture  to  say  there 
never  was  a more  enthusiastic  one.  Indeed,  to  this  fact 
the  Director  himself  bore  testimony,  as  he  more  than  once 
interrupted  the  scene  to  thank  us  for  our  marks  of  ap- 
proval. On  both  sides  the  complaisance  was  complete. 
Never  did  actors  and  audience  work  better  together;  for 
while  we  admired,  they  relished  the  praise  with  all  the 
gusto  of  individual  approbation, — frequently  stopping  to 
assure  us  that  we  were  right  in  our  applause,  that  their 
best  hits  were  exactly  those  we  selected,  and  that  a more 
judicious  public  never  existed.  Stauf  was  carried  away  in 
his  ecstasies;  and,  between  laughing  and  applauding,  I 
was  regularly  worn  out  with  my  exertions. 

Want  of  light  — Stauf’s  candles  swilled  frightfully  from 
neglect  — compelled  them  to  close  the  piece  somewhat 
abruptly;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  second  act,  such  was 
the  obscurity  that  the  Herr  Berg-Bau  und  Weg-Inspector’s 
wife  fell  over  the  prompter’s  bulk,  and  nearly  capsized 
Stauf  into  the  bowels  of  the  big  fiddle.  This  was  the 
finale ; and  I had  barely  time  to  invite  the  corps  to  a 
supper  at  the  Fox,  which  they  kindly  accepted,  when  Stauf 
announced  that  we  must  beat  a retreat  by  “inch  of  candle.” 
This  we  did  in  safety,  and  I reached  the  Fox  in  time  to 
order  the  repast,  before  the  guests  had  washed  off  their 
paint  and  changed  their  dresses. 

If  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  assist  at  more  elegant 
reunions , I can  aver  with  safety  I never  presided  over  a 
more  merry  or  joyous  party  than  was  our  own  at  the  Fox. 
Die  Catinka  sat  on  my  left,  Die  Vrau  von  Mohren-Kopf, 
the  “Mere  noble”  of  the  corps,  on  my  right;  the  Herr 
Director  took  the  foot  of  the  table,  supported  by  a “bas- 
soon” and  a “first  lover;”  while  various  “trombones,” 
“marquis,”  waiting-maids,  walking  gentlemen,  and  a 
“ghost”  occupied  the  space  on  either  side,  not  forget- 
ting our  excellent  friend  Stauf,  who  seemed  the  very 


496 


ARTHUR  O’LEARY. 


happiest  man  of  the  party.  We  were  fourteen  souls  in 
all,  though  where  two-thirds  of  them  came  from,  and  how 
they  got  wind  of  a supper,  some  more  astute  diviner  than 
myself  must  ascertain. 

Theatrical  folk,  in  all  countries,  are  as  much  people  in 
themselves  as  the  Gypsies.  They  have  a language  of  their 
own,  a peculiarity  of  costume  and  liahit  of  life.  They  eat, 
drink,  and  intermarry  with  one  another;  and  in  fact  I 
shouldn’t  wonder,  from  their  organization,  if  they  have 
a king  in  some  sly  corner  of  Europe,  who  one  day  will  be 
restored  with  great  pomp  and  ceremony.  One  undeniable 
trait  distinguishes  them  all,  — at  least,  wherever  I have 
met  them  in  the  Old  world  and  in  the  New, — and  that 
is  a most  unbounded  candor  in  their  estimation  of  one 
another.  Frankness  is  unquestionably  the  badge  of  all 
their  tribe;  and  they  are,  without  exception,  the  most 
free  of  hypocrisy  in  this  respect  of  all  the  classes  with 
whom  it  has  ever  been  my  fortune  to  forgather.  Nothing 
is  too  sharp,  nothing  too  smart  to  be  said,  — no  thrust  too 
home,  no  stab  too  fatal ; it ’s  a melee  tournament,  where  all 
tilt,  and  hard  knocks  are  fair.  This  privilege  of  their 
social  world  gives  them  a great  air  of  freedom  in  all  their 
intercourse  with  strangers,  and  sometimes  leads  even  to 
an  excess  of  ease  somewhat  remarkable  in  their  manners. 
With  them,  intimacy  is  like  those  tropical  trees  that 
spring  up  twenty  feet  high  in  a single  night;  they  meet 
you  at  rehearsal,  and  before  the  curtain  rises  in  the 
evening  there  is  a sworn  friendship  between  you.  Stage 
manners  and  green-room  talk  carry  off  the  eccentricities 
which  other  men  dare  not  practise;  and  though  you  don’t 
fancy  Mr.  Tuft  asking  you  for  a loan  of  five  pounds,  hang 
it ! you  can’t  be  angry  with  Jeremy  Diddler  ! This  double 
identity,  this  Janus  attribute,  cuts  in  two  ways;  and  you 
find  it  almost  impossible  to  place  any  weight  on  the 
opinions  and  sentiments  of  people  who  are  always  profess- 
ing opinions  and  sentiments  learned  by  heart.  This  may 
be  — I ’m  sure  it  is  — very  illiberal,  but  I can’t  help  it.  I 
wouldn’t  let  myself  be  moved  by  the  arguments  of  Brutus 
on  the  Corn  Laws,  or  Cato  on  the  Catholic  question,  any 
more  than  I should  fall  in  love  with  some  sweet  sentiment 


A PLAY  BY  COMMAND. 


497 


of  a daylight  Ophelia  or  Desdemona.  I reserve  all  my 
faith  in  stage  people  for  the  hours  between  seven  and 
twelve  at  night;  then,  with  footlights  and  scenery,  paste- 
board banquets  and  wooden  waves,  I ’m  their  slave,  — 
they  may  do  with  me  as  they  will;  but  let  day  come,  and 
“ I ’m  a man  again  ! ” 

Now,  as  all  this  sounds  very  cross-grained,  the  sapient 
reader  already  suspects  that  there  may  be  more  in  it  than 
it  appears  to  imply,  and  that  Arthur  O’Leary  has  some 
grudge  against  the  Thespians  which  he  wishes  to  pay  off 
in  generalities.  I ’m  not  bound  to  answer  the  insinuation; 
neither  will  I tell  you  more  of  our  supper  at  the  Fox,  nor 
why  the  Herr  Director  Klug  invited  me  to  take  a place  in 
his  wagon  next  day  for  Weimar,  nor  what  Catinka  whis- 
pered as  I filled  her  glass  with  champagne,  nor  how  the 
“serpent”  frowned  from  the  end  of  the  table, — nor,  in 
short,  one  word  of  the  whole  matter,  save  that  I settled  my 
bill  that  same  night  at  the  Kaiser,  and  the  next  morning 
left  for  Weimar,  with  a very  large  and  an  excessively 
merry  party. 


82 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


CONCLUSION. 

The  Platz  of  Weimar  was  all  astir  as  we  drove  up  to 
the  Elephant,  dingiest  and  filthiest  of  all  hostels.  Troops 
of  horses  were  picketed  before  the  house,  and  crowds  of 
peasants  poured  in  from  every  side  with  all  manner  of 
quadrupeds,  gayly  decorated  with  ribbons  and  caparisoned 
with  flaring  saddlecloths  and  bright  head-stalls. 

“What  does  all  this  mean?”  asked  I.  “Is  it  a fair,  or 
a great  holiday?” 

“No,  Mein  Herr,”  replied  the  landlord;  “but  there  is 
an  officer  of  rank  in  the  French  service  just  arrived  to 
purchase  remounts  for  the  Chasseurs  d’Afrique,  and  the 
whole  country  for  miles  around  is  eagerly  hurrying  it  to 
the  market.” 

Promising  myself  some  amusement  from  the  scene,  I 
ordered  my  breakfast  at  once,  telling  the  host  I should 
remain  for  a day  or  two. 

“ Ach  Gott ! ” sighed  he,  “ I can  give  you  nothing.  The 
Frenchman  and  his  staff  have  ordered  all  in  the  house. 
They  have  bespoken  the  rooms,  engaged  the  stable,  and 
retained  every  scullion  in  the  kitchen.” 

“But  surely,”  said  I,  “they  would  not  suffer  a traveller 
to  starve  amidst  this  more  than  plenty  that  I see  here,  nor 
would  they  ask  him  to  lie  in  the  streets  while  there  is  shel- 
ter to  be  had  in  some  nameless  corner  ! Go,  mine  host, 
and  say  that  a middle-aged  gentleman,  of  engaging  man- 
ners and  social  disposition,  is  here  standing  on  the  thres- 
hold, houseless  and  hungry;  that  for  his  entertainment  he 
would  willingly  pay  in  cash  or  conviviality;  but  that  as  to 
leaving  an  inn  without  a hearty  meal  and  a good  bed,  if  he 
wishes  it,  he’d  see  all  the  Frenchmen  that  ever  sacred  — 
particularly  well  — ” 

“What!  say  it  out,  mon  brave!  don’t  balk  your  good 
intentions,”  broke  in  a deep  bass  voice;  while  a broad- 


CONCLUSION. 


499 


chested  fellow,  all  glittering  with  crosses  and  orders,  pre- 
sented his  bearded  face  very  close  to  my  own,  — “ say  it 
out,  I say  ! ” cried  he. 

“So  I mean  to  do,  mon  General”  said  I,  saluting  him. 
“ I was  going  to  observe,  that  of  all  people  in  Europe  for  a 
refined  sense  of  hospitality,  for  a just  idea  of  what  consti- 
tutes real  politeness,  for  a truly  elevated  sense  of  human 
intercourse,  there  is  nothing  like  a Frenchman.” 

“Diantre,  sir!  I am  not  a Frenchman!”  was  the  stern 

reply- 

“A  German,  it  is  true,”  I remarked,  “is  almost  his 
equal,  — in  some  respects  a trifle  his  superior.” 

“ Taper  tole  ! I am  no  German ! ” 

“Nor  a Swede  — a Russian  — a Spaniard  — an  Italian  — 
a Greek?  You  can’t  be  English ! ” said  I,  at  last,  fairly 
beaten  in  my  attempts  to  fix  his  nationality. 

“Devil  a bit,  my  darling!”  said  he,  “I’m  your  own 
countryman,  and,  what ’s  more,  an  old  friend  into  the 
bargain.” 

There  is  no  need  of  mystification,  — it  was  Con  O’Kelly 
himself,  now  fourrier  en  chef  in  the  French  service,  whose 
honest  hand  I grasped.  We  dined  jovially  together  that 
evening,  and  the  next  morning  set  out  for  Marseilles  and 
Africa. 

Ah,  my  dear  reader,  what  a temptation  is  it  that  I resist 
here ! — to  stop,  just  when  a new  and  singular  existence 
opens  before  me;  to  throw  down  my  pen  at  the  very 
moment  I could  become  most  engaging  and  agreeable ! 
By  this  time  you  have  learned  to  see  the  invariable  accu- 
racy of  my  views,  the  liberality  of  my  sentiments,  and  the 
unprejudiced  breadth  of  all  my  speculations  in  life;  while 
I,  on  my  side,  am  as  deeply  penetrated  with  the  general 
kindliness  which  for  so  long  a period  has  marked  your 
companionship  with  Arthur  O’Leary. 

May  we  meet  again  ! but  if  not,  may  your  memory  be  as 
indulgent  as  my  sense  is  deep  of  all  I owe  to  your  forbear- 
ance, all  I hope  from  your  forgiveness ! 


THE  END. 


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